


Brutalism

by thelandofnothing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I love Gendry, arya had some gap years, but a lot of angst, but she's back bitches, but was productive asf, dadvos loves his kids, explicit mentions of love and other disgusting emotions, gendry pined like a sea widow, leave my soot boy alone, post episode 6, slow burn??, the history nerds are shaking, they're established but, war stuff, westerosi political drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-06-27 14:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelandofnothing/pseuds/thelandofnothing
Summary: After three years, Arya Stark is finally ready to come back to the home that has been waiting for her but what is truly home?





	1. i - In the Beginning, There Was a Fury

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this (and another wip) since the show nearly ended and although i bloody hated everything about episode 4-6, i decided to write a fulfilled ending where our unconventional idiots end up happy. i'm currently writing the new chapters for Walls to Build and Six Feet Beneath the Ice, so keep posted as they will be out relatively soonish. 
> 
> hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> (title from the album brutalism by the drums)

_- **Storm's End-**_

(In the Beginning, There Was Fury) 

“My lord.” A page boy called from the door.

Gendry looked up to see the green lad with his shaking leg. He knows his name: Damien, he was one of the many orphans that he had invited to Storm’s End to avoid starving to death in the streets. He had never seen him so nervous and that in its own right put him on edge too.

“What is it Damien?” he asked and felt Davos tense beside him.

They had been discussing troubles with bandits in the Rainwood and for one of the first times, Gendry had felt as though he finally was getting the hang of making decisions on the behalf of his lands.

“There was a rider...”

Gendry furrowed his brows in confusion. Visitors were occasional in the Stormlands except for his bannermen who were polite enough to send a raven beforehand.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he told the older man who nodded his understanding, “Who the bleedin’ Hells would be coming to disturb us in the middle of the night.”

“You’re mighty popular nowadays, must be another one of your suitors.”

Gendry chuckled at the mockery in his comment. Although Davos was simply the closest thing he had to a father, he had always given him a hard time about his abstinence. But there was one thing about a willing woman and a noble Southron lady that would always differentiate, and he, for the most part, had stayed clean away, knowing the only thing they would spread their legs for was the title of the Lady of Storm’s End. He might have been playing this game for a lonesome span of three years but he knew those who exploited the weak when he saw them. And as Davos had always said, Flea Bottom had prepared him well for this kind of trial.

He looked back at the waiting page who now had company.

His eyes went wild and he stood up from his chair so violently it fell back behind him.

Arya Stark stared at him with a soft smile on her lips.

“Gendry,” she greeted in a teasing tone, reminiscent of all those years ago. He felt every filament in his body paralyse with trepidation, “Or should I be calling you m’lord now.”

He wanted to pinch himself. The woman he hadn't seen for three years was here, the woman whom he still pathetically loved. He thought of the frequent, intensely vivid dreams that plagued his nights more than he wished to admit but they did not hold a candle to the figure in the doorway of his keep looking as though a single day hadn’t passed since she left Westeros when Bran had become king.

_Arya,_ he remembers how sweet her name sounded in his mouth before every memory of her turned to ash. It was bitter now, like how women commented on the taste of moon tea, and in the years apart he had taken every measure to avoid mentioning her in any context. That never would dissuade the talk of servants and nobles alike, for Arya was the hero that bards would sing about until they croaked, and even then, a thousand years later, the Northern woman would still remain ever the formidable actress in fate’s own play.

But unnaturally, something cold like winter took root in his veins urging him to distance himself. He was only reminded of the numbness her rejection caused him those years ago, the look she had given him as she slowly broke his heart in half. And then she had left, without a word of goodbye or sentiment to his love for her or even their lasting years of friendship.

“Lady Arya,” he said back, challenging her. It was to mock her as well, but he wanted his anger to accentuate each of the words.

Perhaps it was childish of him to ridicule her title, knowing that it was the quickest way under her skin. But he knew it, only for control, to prove to Arya Stark that he wasn’t the weak bastard who thought of her every single day for those long, lonely years.

It had felt longer than years. Lifetimes, perhaps.

“Ours is the fury indeed,” she smirked and placed her hands behind her back, taking one step after the other so she was closer, “I apologise for interrupting your meeting.”

_Gods,_ he thought, she was more beautiful since the last time he had seen her; when he had knelt before her and asked her foolishly to be the lady of his keep. _That’s not me._

“Lady Stark…” Davos begins but she silences him with her hand.

“Just Arya, thank you Ser Davos,” she tells the man, “It’s been a while.” 

“It has.” he agreed.

“I’ve heard whispers that Lord Baratheon is a fine ruler.”

Their old war comrade’s face softened at her words.

“Well my—” he stopped himself and looked back at him worriedly, “…Arya, Gendry is someone I am honoured to serve under, and the common people think very highly of him.”

She smiled proudly at him, a light in her eyes that he had barely seen in those short moons he had with her in Winterfell. He could do nothing but stare back at her in disbelief like she was about to dissipate into the air if he moved a muscle.

“Could you please give us a minute Ser?” she asked suddenly, her gaze never leaving his.

“Of course,” the older man moved quickly and moved past her who he nodded at before he reached the door and closed it behind him. She followed the man with her eyes until he was out of sight and it was only the two of them in the room.

An uncomfortable silence enveloped them, and Gendry felt his heart stammering like a stallion in his chest. But like usual, Arya was the first to make a move.

“Storm’s End is a beautiful fortress,” she commented, eyeing the room with awe, “I imagine it’s even more impressive under the light of day.”

He didn’t respond, watching her scan her surroundings while tugging her cloak closer to her body. She wore a similar style of leathers to the ones he had always seen her wear in Winterfell however these ones were much more accommodated to Southern temperatures. When she turned her back, he saw her hair was long and beautiful; still half tied-up behind her head but adorned with a long braid, twisted with feathers and beads that ran down her flowing chestnut locks.

“They say the Stormlands haven’t thrived like this for years,” she continued, tugging on a tapestry that hung against one of the walls near the freshly poked hearth, “I’ve heard many rumours… That the Smith Lord eats on the same table as his people, that he knows the name of every servant and washerwoman.” 

He had been told she was travelling, sailing the seas in search for new lands. As a lord, he had the ability to ask about her whereabouts. He had an inkling she hadn’t ever return to Winterfell and the letter Queen Sansa had sent him back informed him affirmatively of his suspicions, telling him he would be the first to know if she ever did. He received no such raven, even though he had hoped for it pathetically.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked her, waiting for her head to turn back to face him.

“I wanted to see an old friend,” she responded like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “It’s nice to be on land after so long at sea.”

_Friend._

The word made him see red.

She moved around the room and spots the wine jug on the table, pulling a glass and filling it up, bringing it to her lips to take a sip.

“It’s been three years,” he suddenly whispered incredulously.

Arya gave him a pointed look as she sat down in one of the many chairs surrounding the circular table, facing him.

“You remember how many now, do you?” she goaded, tilting her head to the side.

He was no mood to play any games reminiscent of their past.

“I didn’t expect you to.”

Arya’s face dropped unexpectantly. It was certain this was not what she had anticipated on her arrival. Maybe she expected him to fall at her feet, beg and ask her to be his, to drop his responsibilities and come with her. Or some wicked part of him deduced it was a check-up: had he married some Southron lady? Had he fallen into a drunken stupor like his father? He hadn’t spent the better part of three years raising a dead kingdom from the grave to return to his boyish nature. But there was no telling his heart to stop loving her.

“I’ve been counting,” she admitted the words and sipped from her cup nervously, “Three years since I told you I couldn’t be a lady. Three years since King’s Landing burned. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke, I still feel ash on my skin… I should have died in that city; I saw so many people die that day that it felt… I felt for the longest time that I was dead too. Going West didn’t fill that hole… West is just East… It’s Essos. The world goes around in a circle and I guess after a while, I wanted to come back.”

He looked away then and swallowed the lump in his oesophagus.

“Why are you not at Winterfell then?”

“Winterfell isn’t my home anymore,” she told him and twirled the wine in her cup, “Sansa is there, I want to visit soon but it’s not home.”

“Family is important,” he grumbled, bending over and picking up the fallen chair.

“Funny you say that I was thinking the same thing,” she said casually as if years were not standing in between them, “Which is why my offer still stands, you know?”

“ _Your_ offer?” he scoffed and stood back upright. He was done hiding his anger now.

“To be my family,” She stated plainly as day, placing the cup on the table and watching him carefully, like a wolf would watch the stag, “I might’ve been a child then, but I was no fool. I asked you something so genuine and you decided to leave.”

“And when I realised my mistake, I asked you to be with me and you left _,_ ” he accused, his voice getting louder. Arya sat unaffected in her chair, meeting his eyes with nothing more than the cool stoic gaze she always seemed to wear now, “I asked you to be by my side. I only took the name proudly because it worked out… I could finally be worthy of you…”

“Who said you weren’t worthy of me before?” she questioned, tapping her nails on the wood of the table. He saw she wore rings now, and her hands looked more calloused than he remembered them. Looking back at her face, he saw the years of hardships keep in the scars from each battle; a hooked scar on her lip from what he presumed happened in Braavos after they were separated as children, the one on her forehead after the Battle of Winterfell…

He saw her brows narrow and her eyes grow dark. There was another under her eye, it was not familiar like the others, it still seemed puckered and fresh like it only had begun healing. 

“You broke my heart and left… Now you come back like the last three years of your ghost tormenting me meant nothing,” he told her, and her eyes went wild, unblinking as he stood there with his fists clenched at his sides.

“No, you never asked me to by your family… You asked me to be a lady. _The_ lady of Storm’s End,” she told him sternly but there was no anger in her eyes, “You should have known that I don’t want that life, not then, not now, not ever. I will never be apologetic for rejecting you. We both know you were being stupid.”

He wanted to yell at her, throttle her if he could. It didn’t matter how long they spent apart; he knew her true nature. Knew who she was under the dirt and the stone-cold façade. He knew that she hated her noble title, and she did not abide by any ladylike norms whilst in Winterfell those years ago. But he kept his face indifferent because of course, he already knew this. He was braved by the wine and excited by the prospect of his future, and _of course,_ everything about that future included Arya.

He pursed his lips and let her continue.

“You asked me to be something I wasn’t,” she whispered, her words held a vulnerability he didn’t even think she could possess, “I haven’t been a lady for years, haven’t learnt how to run a household, none of it. You were with me when we were running from the Lannisters. I can never be the type of lady you needed here. The one that simpers and laughs at your jokes, pumps your babes out each year and sits by the fire sewing until her lord husband returns from battle.”

“I don’t need no lady like that, never did. It’s not what I meant, what I meant was for you to be my side. To be how you wanted but with me,” he told her seriously, cocking his eyebrow, “I did this all by myself, being a lord and all this bullshit. You’re the one who said I’d be good at it.” 

She let out a soft chuckle and smiled, looking at him through her lashes, “Yes and I’m glad you listened for once in your life, you stubborn bull.” 

He closed his eyes and waited a few seconds until they opened. _It’s a dream,_ he tells himself, _I’ll wake up and she’ll disappear, the Gods are torturing me and I’m going mad._ He stared at her intensely, but he refused to smile. She looked back at him.

“It took me years for me to even belong to myself again,” she looked away to the window, “Maybe I needed those three years for something… To leave this shit country and find something.” 

_That’s not me._

She stood up in the chair and walked over to him.

“But always know,” she continued breathlessly, “That I’ll always love you, I always have. I knew that I had something to come back to…”

He stood there, unmoving and watching her come closer, and closer.

_I love you more than you can ever know,_ he wanted to say back but his tongue lay useless in his mouth.

“And what if I had married?” he challenged her, but she simply shrugged her shoulders.

“Then I would have respected that my decision had led to such thing and left you in peace… But I didn’t hear rumours of a wife, and I sure don’t see one.”

She stood on her tiptoes and attempted to kiss him, but he crossed his arms over his chest and sent a challenging glare back. She sauntered back and narrowed her eyes, her hand resting defensively on the pommel of Needle that still graced her sword belt.

“Don’t think you can just waltz into my life like this and expect me to worship you, Arya,” he told her firmly and the frustration on her face would have been amusing those years ago but now he felt nothing, “I am not that man anymore.”

“So there is a Lady Baratheon that you’ve wooed,” she mocked him, her eyes flickering spitefully.

He glared at her.

“You’re angry at me for rejecting your proposal,” she said blankly, and he shook his head.

“I’m angry at you for leaving and not saying goodbye. Twice, Arya!” he told her, stepping to her side to pick up his cup and fill it with wine, “I couldn’t fuckin’ care less that you rejected my stupid proposal. I couldn’t care less about the stupid fuckin’ lordship either! I spent my whole life under you, servin’ nobles and finally I had the chance. I was your friend foremost Arya! Your friend. You say goodbye to your friends; you don’t just leave in the middle of the night. I would have given it all up if that’s what would have made you stay. We could have worked it out if you had just talked to me. I would have taken it better.”

“I didn’t ask you to mope in your big castle,” she snapped but there were cracks in her walls, “After King’s Landing, I was lost… All I knew was that… I couldn’t be in Westeros, not then.”

“I didn’t mope, I picked this kingdom from the dirt and I work to the bone to help these people. I haven’t had the _time_ to mope around Arya,” he responded, and she looked up at him, her face lined with panic, “When you’ve found your way, then come to me. I’ll only accept you for who you truly are; nothing less than the woman that loved me that night. I know you, Arya, I know that life has only ever been cruel to you but it’s time to stop pushing people away. You’re allowed a life of peace and if you love me as you say, then it would never discredit who you are if it were with me.” 

He swigged the remaining wine from his cup and marched out the door, leaving her to ponder his words.


	2. ii - A Girl Is a Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arya stays in storm's end despite a particular bullheaded bastard's reluctance to let her back into his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for the amazing support on the last chapter, i enjoyed reading everyone's comments!
> 
> here's a new chapter in record time with no promises for the rest of my schedule which will probably be diabolical. 
> 
> thank you guys again and enjoy the new chapter.

**_-Storm's End-_ **

(A Girl is a Stranger) 

Regardless of his hostility, she decides to stay for a time.

Long enough to observe from the shadows and learn about the new man that Gendry Baratheon has become. There is some part of her that wants to accommodate herself to _his_ home even though the words feel wrong in her mouth because, despite his unexpected coldness, she’s happy for him, so happy that she catches herself smiling like an idiot whenever he puts a lord in his place or when he sits an listens attentively during the petitions. Everything about the Stormlands seemed to reflect him; the way the sea was the same colour as his eyes and the lands are rough like his temper but still held a gentleness that she knows is under that frown he now gives her. Gendry doesn’t bother dedicating time to her, and she’s not surprised; he has a household to run, common people to listen to and bannermen alike to consult. Sometimes, very rarely, he walks her along the cliffs and lets her see Shipbreaker’s Bay. He’ll tell her about the little things that have changed; he’s not illiterate now and he’s using his numbers to calculate grain stores all by himself. She’s never been prouder and she makes it so he hears it.

Wherever she goes, the people whisper _Lyanna Stark_ like she is her living ghost. She knows they must think she’s here to marry him and she lets the few young washerwomen who call Gendry a lucky man giggle in their oblivion. She knew however distant he was keeping himself from her, how angry he wanted to remain didn’t hide the fact he still loved her. Unlike Robert Baratheon, Gendry had always seen the iron underneath her skin before loving whatever beauty he saw on her face. She saw his love when he smiled sometimes, not directly at her but at a mention of the better times of the past, especially when he had reunited her with Hot Pie who was now working his kitchens. The three of them would sit contently, eating bread while Hot Pie would recollect their adventures that would make excellent roguish bedtime stories for little children. 

When she talks to Gendry’s bannermen, they ask her if she has come to marry the Lord of Storm’s End but when she gives her answer, they’re not surprised. They tell her that he isn’t interested in marriage, he spends far too much time with the staff and common people of Storm’s End to dedicate to a wife where the moments he has to himself are spent in the forge. She can tell there’s a push for him to marry, to sire an heir but apparently according to Hot Pie after Gendry is whisked away by his _lordly duties_ and they can talk in confidence, he barely looks in a woman’s direction since he arrived. _He’s kind and just,_ they all tell her, _but he’s lonely and sullen._ She can see it in the scars on his face and the hardness in his eyes. A soldier, a war hero and she could never give him what he wanted, not when he had asked those years ago. Davos had reaffirmed her that his lack of female interaction purely came from his busyness with the keep, and his willingness to learn how to be a good lord. She doesn’t doubt that he has slept with a couple of women, and the thought makes her glad if anything. She could not bear the thought of him, sacrificing his happiness just because of her selfishness.

It’s ironic how he told her only to come to him once she was the woman that loved him that night. She didn’t see him being anything remotely near to the man who had loved her so fiercely when he kneeled before her, asking her to marry him.

She knew he was being intentionally cruel, giving her a taste of her own medicine but she would stupid to deny her feelings for him, that she wanted him as more than just a nightly lover who barely looked at her in the day. She wanted him to be her family, there wasn’t a time when she didn’t. It had always been him; her grumpy but protective bull who never thought less of her if she was covered in dirt, starving or ready to stab someone. If she had stayed in Winterfell all those years ago, she knew, she just _knew_ that he would have given his lordship up and done anything to be with her. Some part of her wished he had followed her South but she knows everything is too far gone for wishful thinking.

She understood the flow of giving and take, she remembered the force in her mother and her father’s relationship. Their love was what kept them strong, they looked after each other. They gave their hearts to one another, and only took when it was right.

So, she decided that it was her turn to give to him, knowing that he had well given her more than his heart all those years ago.

She noticed the untouched forge when she was sparring in the training yard one morn and how unlike it looked to the one in Winterfell during the war. The main smithy in Storm’s End is apparently occupied at all times of the day and night which she knows, must make it impossible for Gendry to let off some steam. This one, however, stood unattended and lonely amidst the growing bustle of the keep and she decided that remodelling it for his private use would the first of many steps she had to take to win his favour.

The grunt of the Stormland knight she was fighting brought her back to focus and she concentrated when he lunged at her with his broadsword, his footwork quick and timely, better than any lord she’s encountered in the capital. Arya coiled and mirrored his movements, listening to the cathartic clang of metal as they drove back and forth. The Stormlanders were a different breed she noted, their fighting style was impeccably different to her own Northernmen or those of the South. They were ferocious and unrelenting, and Arya almost felt lucky she was being challenged. A crowd gathered to see her spar, _the Saviour of the Realm,_ they called to her as the bards did in the songs, _Dawnbringer,_ but Arya didn’t want to be a hero. She wanted to be as Gendry saw her; just a woman of the North and her blade.

Just Arya Stark.

The knight became increasingly cocky in a successful attempt to drive her back across the yard but as soon as he straightened his legs, she dropped low and whirled around, kicking the knight’s feet from under him before moving in quickly and pinning his body with her knee. She lifted her chin and pointed the tip of Needle to his throat.

“Dead,” she said under her breath and the knight yielded albeit in frustration.

All around her became applause and she looked up to the crowd to see _him_ staring at her with his arms crossed over his chest. Once their eyes met, he raised his chin before he turned his back and disappeared within the throng of people.

Arya was left to listen to the idle chatter of other Stormland knights who were most intrigued by her fighting as her heart stammered in her chest.

* * *

“This is good Hot Pie,” she said as she tore another piece of bread and dunked it in her stew, “Better than last time at the Crossroads.”

Her childhood friend’s eyes lit up, “Really?”

She nodded and wiped her mouth. She had never really stuck to courtesies and manners whilst eating, she was much too used with her fingers or slurping soup out of bowls to favour the delicacy of eating with cutlery. She remembered how the three of them had eaten dirt in Harrenhal when they were prisoners with no other option for food. 

“I understand why Gendry wanted you to come here so bad,” she told him with a laugh.

Hot Pie averted his eyes and focused on kneading the batter in front of him.

“Hey Arry…” he said softly, and she raised her head at the coy mention of her name, “Why are you and Gendry are fighting?”

She stared wide-eyed at him, trying to formulate an answer but even with the long silence that began to unravel after his question Arya could not come up with an answer that was both coherent and true at the same time.

“Gendry and I aren’t fighting…” she sighed, giving in and pushing the bowl away from her, “When we met in Winterfell years ago and things changed. Before the Battle of Winterfell, we thought we were going to die and… Well, I wanted to know what being with a man felt like. You know Gendry… He’s always been someone we could trust, and he’s always looked after me. So…”

His face twisted in confusion and she sighed, defeated.

“We fucked Hot Pie. We lay together.”

His mouth made a wide ‘O’ shape as the cogs in his brain finally turned. _He had always been a little slow,_ she thought but she kept her mouth quiet when the boy could make bread as good as this.

“Is that when he proposed after you both survived, didn’t he?” Hot Pie abandoned his bread making and crossed his flour stained hands across his chest, “Then you told him you couldn’t be a lady and you left him heartbroken.”

Arya lowered her eyes and felt her heart clench with fear. She didn’t expect his words to be so confronting but even so, she stood her ground. Gendry must have let him know the truth, or their old friend must have heard it elsewhere.

“I wasn’t obliged to say yes Hot Pie, and he’s not angry about that all. He was acting like a drunken fool,” she felt her shoulders burdened with the guilt of years began to sag, “He’s not talking to me because I left for my travels without saying goodbye. I left for three years without closure or communication. And he has every right to not want to talk to me, especially when I come gallivanting into his castle like nothing happened.”

He gave her a sour look, his brows still furrowed.

“I don’t expect him to open up to me or worship me or even love me any more for that matter…” she told herself more than her companion, “But I’ve always loved him… Ever since we were children, even when I didn’t know what that meant. And it took me those three years to realise that I’m capable of feeling more than vengeance. I needed the time to process everything that happened and now I’m ready. But I know that maybe it’s been too long, and the world has moved on without me.”

Something in Hot Pie’s expression grows fond and he puts a hand on her arm, despite the flour mark he’d leave on her jerkin.

“He still loves you, that’s for sure,” he said quietly, “And he can’t shut you out forever. I can tell he likes having you here because I sure do.”

She smiled back at him.

“I like it here,” she told him, “I think I might stay for a while.”

The cook’s face suddenly lit up and he quickly swallowed her in a hug.

“Gendry would love that y’ know?” he exclaimed, giving her an atrocious wink, “You might not think it, but he’s always askin’ bout you: is Arya comfortable in her room? Is she eatin’ well? Does she like it here? Do you think she’ll stay?”

Her brows furrowed at the new information. Gendry had barely said a few passing words to her.

“He truly said those things?”

He nodded his head with a smirk.

Something in her heart fluttered like hope.

* * *

Gendry let her sit in on his council meetings, or rather, she would waltz through the door and sit down on a chair and not one of the lords or him would dare make room to kick her out.

She now understood that her status as the ‘Nightslayer’ went far beyond the fear Northmen wore around her back in Winterfell, and after three years of absolute anonymity, she is unused to Southron courtesies. They seemed to respect Gendry for similar regards for his contribution to the Battle of Winterfell seems to make him a veteran amongst Stormlords that are old enough to be their respected fathers.

Her ears perk up one meeting when Lord Buckler mentions that a village had been sacked and the women killed and raped. A familiar feeling shivered down her spine.

_Vengeance?_

She remembered how women screamed on the streets, not only because of the babes and children ripped from their arms but the men who dragged them into alleyways. _Her_ men who bore the direwolves on their armour. Arya felt dread encompass her entire body. 

“We should raid them when they’re stocking up on supplies at an inn,” she suggested suddenly and all eyes turned on her, even Gendry’s.

It must have been surprising for the men; a strange girl who turned up at Lord Baratheon’s gate only a moon-turn ago and had never uttered a word at a council meeting before was now giving advice.

“How do you suggest we do that Lady Arya?” Lord Buckler asked her, his eyes showing nothing but respect and interest.

“Lord Baratheon, you expect us to take the advice of a woman?” Lord Penrose suddenly rose from his chair, pointing an accusatorial finger at her.

Ser Davos only chuckled while Gendry glared at the man.

“And how many battles have you fought Lord Penrose?” Arya asked, snaking her hands to cross over her chest, leaning back in her chair.

The man snapped his head to look at her as she sat confidently in her chair.

“Well… I happen to… Be a lord of a…”

“None of the recent wars, is that correct?” she snaps, and he shakes his head uneasily.

“Then I advise you sit down Lord Penrose, to save your face,” Gendry voice sounded coolly over the room and the way he stared at the older lord could have started a blaze.

“Please do continue La—Arya.” Ser Davos quickly corrected, and she smiled.

She discussed a tactic that would involve a small group of men surrounding the bandit’s whereabouts, where a distraction outside would take place.

“We’ll then enter from the back and kill them from behind. If we’re stealthy, they won’t know that we’re coming.”

“But what will we use as a distraction?” another lord piped.

“Bandits always have horses and they are expensive this far south,” she answered and looked up to Gendry.

She could not deny the pain that weaved into her stomach watching him avert his eyes so quickly, and she could even feel Ser Davos’ concerned gaze settle on the man’s face.

“We cut one loose,” she concluded, tapping her fingernails on the wooden table, “It’ll cause a commotion.” 

“And what if they are women in this inn?” Lord Buckler asked, “Bandits do love their whores.”

“Our men will not fail to protect them to our best ability,” Gendry replied for her, “And if I hear that a single one of any of our men lays a hand on them, I’m sure Lady Arya will have no hesitation in cutting their throats if I do not get to them myself.”

Arya smiled at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, a cold, impassive look took over his face while there began mumbles of agreement. Her smile fell as he got up and pushed his chair out, moving the wooden pieces on the board, mirroring her plan.

“It’s best to leave at dawn, to catch them off guard.” She proposed and the men around the table muttered and chattered under their breaths, shooting eyes at Gendry for affirmation.

“What are you looking at me for? You heard Lady Stark, we leave at first dawn tomorrow,” he announced, looking away.

The scrapes of chairs sounded the room and Gendry left with them.

Arya looked at Davos who was staring back at her apologetically.

* * *

“Did you ever tell you why he doesn’t meet my eye anymore?” she asked Ser Davos one afternoon after she showed him her ship _Visenya_ that took her West and all through Essos. He had been thoroughly impressed with the sturdy vessel and had even met some of her crew who were planning to settle in the Stormlands with the women and men they had met through their travels.

“Something about a botched proposal and too much drink,” he chuckled deeply and then cleared his throat, “Saw you at the Council meeting three years past, and I immediately knew who had his heart; when you threatened bloody Yara Greyjoy I knew what you were to him. He’s fuckin’ stubborn that boy. Surprised it hasn’t gotten him killed.”

She nodded and thought about how long those years were. It had felt like yesterday to her; Bran becoming king, Jon leaving to the North. Some nights she even could still smell King’s Landing burning, she could hear screams and see the mother and child that she couldn’t save burnt to a crisp. The Battle of Winterfell caused her nightmares too. The moments she spent in the library and the circulating wights had jolted her awake with a silent scream on too many occasions.

“Is he courting a lady to be his wife?”

Davos shook his head.

“As much as they want him too, Gendry never seemed too thrilled about the daughters of his bannermen. And trust me, Arya, he’s met them all, they were relentless in the first years of his lordship,” the man looked pensive for a moment, “He’s much too busy running the keep and helping the common people. He’s always cared about others before he cared about himself.”

They walked along the cliffs, admiring the view. Davos liked her it seemed, he shot warm glances her way during dinner and often took her out to see the surrounding villages on days like these.

“He’s angry with me for leaving all those years ago,” she announced, and the older man looked at her thoughtfully, “Without saying goodbye. He told me as much.”

“Not the nicest thing to do… But if you were anywhere near King’s Landing…” the man looked her way and she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.

“Have you ever seen something more horrible?” she asked him, and he regarded her for a moment.

“Battles aren’t songs Arya. I lost my sons in one but… But King’s Landing. That wasn’t a battle… That was a massacre.”

She pursed her lips together and felt a shudder ripple through her body.

“I was in the crowds when her dragon begun to…”

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I know it might be hard, but Gendry still cares about your dearly,” he told her, his eyes growing soft, “I can tell that he’s not smitten any more, he does love you girl. He just has a wounded pride, and we both know that lad is more stubborn than the Gods above.”

She chuckled and felt him smile too.

“Don’t give up lassie, he might not like being one, but he is a Baratheon. And they don’t give up very easily. Trust me, I would know,” the older man turned towards the cliff.

She hoped she could believe him but the uncertainty in her heart was only growing.


	3. iii - Bandits Amongst the Plains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya diffuse the bandits with ease, but their tension is much more troubling. However, those aren't the only tensions that are rising. It seems as though a three-year peace was all the Realm could manage...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's another chapter! thank you guys for the insane amount of support, i've decided that I want to take this fic further into a more plot orientated method - still obviously focusing on gendry and arya's relationship. as they're healing and need to reestablish their relationship in a new environment, a romantic reunion is not too far away. but i intend to approach it steadily and in a realistic way! 
> 
> a lot of you guys have appreciated the way i have written gendry's character in which I am so grateful for the feedback. 
> 
> enjoy this one!

_**-Somewhere Near Felwood-** _

(Bandits Amongst the Plains)

At the crack of dawn, a band of his men, Davos, Arya Stark and himself set off on their horses amongst the rolling plains of the Stormlands.

He looked up at the sun as it skirted the edges of the horizon, caressing the sea he had grown to love so much. This morn, the sky wept blood orange and pink tears, as gentle as a babe’s swaddling. He loved these mornings, ones where the air was fresh and licked with salt where the glow of the coming day was barely enough to light their paths. He turned to look to his left when he saw her.

She was bathed in the ethereal luminosity of the Gods and he nearly lost his breath.

Of course, he had nearly forgotten how beautiful she truly was, not the way her smile lit up a room or the shape of her body. It was the strength in her face, and how he could see each battle dancing in the scars that marked her body. She was as gorgeous and rough as iron, and he had wanted to be her smith, to release those coils and rivets of anger and desertion out of her limbs until she could feel like herself once again. It was a foolish fantasy, he told himself often, but no expanse of years could inhibit his love for the girl beside him. The one whom he caught threatening to skewer Hot Pie as a gangly, shod haired child who only knew very few things.

Years had changed more things than her hair or the womanly curves of her form.

She was wise, much more than him as he had always known, and he loved her for it. He loved her wildness, her tenacity, her strength and her weakness. For she loved as fiercely as he, and he didn’t need to be told that she loved him, he already knew. It was the necessity of unconditional, fearless love where anxiety had no place to belong in his heart. He didn’t know the girl who returned from the dead all those years ago in Winterfell, he only knew _Arry_ who had died with her brother and her mother at the Red Wedding. Yet under the slivered light of the morning, he saw her again, like the time she reappeared when he called her beautiful.

He turned his gaze back to the ocean and closed his eyes, his ears yearning for the violence of the sea as it thrashed against the cliffs. As much as he hated to admit it, he could feel the soil of this country as stark as the blood that pulsed under his skin. He belonged here, he just knew, son of a dead whoring king or not. The fury that existed within him had a place here, it matched the storms and the rugged land. He knew he was durable, otherwise, he wouldn’t have lived as long as he had. He had finally raised a home, yet despite having Davos, he was devoid of family.

_I am as vulnerable as a mother’s child,_ he thought, feeling the sway of his giant black stallion beneath him.

It was humorous to imagine that years later, he would have grown so fond of a horse enough to name him and have an arse well-conditioned to mounting the back of a steed for several days even. He often travelled out to the surrounding villages, helping ageing smiths or elderly women if they needed aid lifting laundry or baskets of food. He had fixed leaking rooves of homes and orphanages alike, forging cutlery, tools and weapons for the commonfolk to get food with. He taught some children how to set up rabbit traps, from the skills he had learnt with the Brotherhood, he had even taken a few young, strong boys and girls under his tutelage to learn how to smith.

As much as he dreaded becoming the Lord of Storm’s End, he had taken the role by the reins are attempted to help as many people as possible. Although it was nice having the authority and the safety that came with lordship, he loved being a nameless smith in a village full of bustling people.

However, removing Arya Stark from his future had been a tiring and continuous effort. Time after time he believed himself that he had succeeded but seeing her after years had only proved his failure. A wicked part of him applauded his faults, begged him to grovel desperately in the dirt under her feet to gain her affections. Arya wasn’t the only one who had used the three years to heal; his insecurities would be the death of him. Even a lordship couldn’t keep his mind straying from that unfortunate parting in the cave all those years ago.

_I can be your family._

And oh, how he wanted to be.

He tensed his shoulders and kicked his steed into a trot. If Arya Stark could make him wait for years in uncertainty, she could wait until his anger and hurt settled enough to let him see reason. He could not deny that it wasn’t killing him internally; forcing distance, avoiding conversation. He spent restless nights awake because of it.

His mind did often wander to futures that included her; she wasn’t a generalised lady in any of those fantasies. Usually, she was riding, unruly hair whipping the wind or sparring. She was by his side at council meetings or at feasts or helping out villages with the sleeves of her tunic rolled up, up to her ankles in mud. He imagined her travelling as well, whenever she wanted, wherever she wanted, and sometimes he would come with her too. He never felt sad when she left, for the tenderness of their goodbye was enough to keep his heart warm to their next greeting.

_I am a foolish man,_ he thought and stole another glance at Arya who had her eyes closed in silent pleasure, feeling the wind of her face.

In this moment, she was part horse; her hips moving concomitantly with her mare. She was ever the warrior, and she donned a whole artillery on her person; a bow, Needle, the catspaw dagger, even a smaller version of an arakh against her lower back. However far the aura of death seemed to follow her, he couldn’t help but witness the sweet juxtaposition of her amongst the wildflowers, seated upon the white horse. More to his surprise, she dismounted and picked a couple of the soft buds, threading them through the mane of her gentle steed.

He avoided his gaze for the thousandth time, cursing his damn heart for belonging to one woman, and one woman alone.

* * *

Arya Stark being right was one thing, but the deadly accuracy in which she knew how to calculate their plan entirely in her head only after a few minutes of observation, left the bunch of them feeling stunned to the core.

“She’s truly a wolf, isn’t she?” Davos murmured into his ear as they saw her circling the inn around the undergrowth, her bow raised to her chest, “I fear for the poor bastards.”

Gendry couldn’t help but grimace as he watched the inn with what he could count as twelve tacked horses feeding in the front. Already the cacophony of rowdy men filled the forest clearing.

“After I cut the horse loose and they come out, order your men to storm the inn. Have your archers shoot any stragglers,” she instructed, and he met her eyes.

She got up silently and nodded her head at him.

“Don’t get hurt,” he told her, and her head whipped around to stare at him in disbelief before it melted into a soft smile.

“You too,”

Apparently, Arya hadn’t even needed to go anyway near the horses and instead managed to shoot loose four of the horses with only her arrows, splitting the rope itself. He held up a signal and his men trekked silently through the undergrowth to position themselves at the back of the inn. He remained with some of his archers, squatted behind a tree, hearing a confused commotion. Suddenly an arrow flung from their side straight into the eye of one of the investigating bandits, and he fell quickly. As two more appeared hurriedly, they both met the same fate, and Gendry barely had time to blink before they were slumped to the ground in a crimson pool of their own blood.

His men began to storm the back of the establishment and soon clangs of steel echoed through the trees. Burly men, dressed in scrapped leather armour came out to meet them, but as he raised his own Warhammer some of them wisely scampered away. He could see Arya by his side as she raised her arakh and made quick work of any man who dared meet her blade. It was mesmerising seeing Arya Stark in the flesh, as she slashed and danced around the men with such indifference. Her face held no such concentration, and if he was being honest, he could have sworn she looked bored.

All it took was a few moments of sweet distraction, watching the woman he loved cut through his enemies when things went tits up.

A searing pain shot up the side of his left leg and when he looked down, the protruding shaft of an arrow had gone through his leg. He slumped down and watched Arya’s horrified stare grace his form as someone rushed at him.

_Bloody Hells…_

There was no expected clang of colliding steel, only a spray of blood against his doublet when Arya slid on the ground beside him and opened up the man’s guts with a concise sliver of the arakh.

_I’m going to have to make the girl a new weapon as thanks now,_ he thought grumpily, half in a daze as she kicked the man away like a rag-doll and knelt down next to him, dragging him by the arms to a concealed part of the edge of the clearing.

“You’re an idiot!” she told him, and he could see, remarkably, that there were tears welling in her eyes, “You could have died!”

“Didn’t though,” he replied through gritted teeth, “Too stubborn and stupid apparently.”

“Your men have seemed to do quite well,” she told him as the commotion around them had died significantly.

“They’re good men,”

“That’s because you’re a good lord,” she told him and looked away.

After a pointed moment of silence, he dared himself to ask the question that had gnawed painfully at his heart for long enough.

“Arya… Why did you come back here of all places?”

She looked up at him, already pulling out materials to heal him until she sighed.

“You’ve always been my friend, my best friend,” she explained, a distant look in her eyes, “I wasn’t wrong not to marry you, I was wrong to run away and expect a better outcome in a lonely sea voyage. I know you hate me now, but you’d never turn me away… I trust you Gendry, and there’s very little people remaining that I can say that about. Let’s just leave it at that.”

He knew he wouldn’t gain anything by pushing further for an answer that was more profound, so he sat with what he was given and pondered the meaning of her words.

“Quit wriggling, you’re acting like a child,” she scolded him, and he glared at her.

“Oh no Arya, I definitely didn’t get shot right through me bloody leg,” he answered sarcastically.

With the bodies of the outlaws deposed off in the forage, his men were left loitering and checking after superficial wounds as Gendry remained pressed against the trunk of a tree as Arya prodded at his leg. He thought about the problem of collating compensation for the villagers who lost their possessions, homes and their families’ lives. It was very rarely that he dealt with groups of grotesque and violent men such as the roguish bandits, who hadn’t seen a day of true battle. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“You want me to pull it out then and have you howling like a babe?” she threatened, her brows furrowing.

“Might as well, would hurt less than you running off in the middle of the night,” he challenged back and her eyes turned murderous.

“You stupid, stubborn idiot!” she whacked the side of his arm with the strength of the Mountain himself, “I’m trying to help your stupid arse!”

“You’re helping me by hurting me more? You’re a genius m’lady, ever thought of becoming a maester?”

“Shut up,” she told him, pointing a menacing finger in his face, “Or I _will_ rip this out in one go and I’ll leave you bleeding to death in this forest.”

She produced a leather strap and stuffed in roughly in between his teeth before he could argue more.

“Is everything okay here? My lord, are you hurt?” a knight that Gendry couldn’t remember the name of for the life of him, stood arrogantly above them both.

It must have been the pain, or maybe the memory of him cockily fighting Arya and then plainly staring at her arse that caused his anger.

“Piss off,” he growled, and the lad scampered off as quickly as he sauntered up.

That earned him another hit that nearly had him ringing like a bell.

“Don’t be rude to your bloody bannermen!” she hissed.

He spat the leather out and glowered at her.

“Are you my wife?” he taunted, and she looked up at him, suddenly panicked, “Then don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do in my own bloody kingdom.”

She averted her eyes and kept quiet, her lips becoming a straight hard line. It wasn’t often that someone reverted Arya Stark into silence and he could tell it had not been anytime in the recent years. He could have been concerned when she retrieved the leather and cleaned against her pant leg before grabbing a satchel of wine from behind her and thrusting it at him.

“It’s going to hurt, and I don’t carry milk of the poppy on me, so drink it,” she ordered him in a hard voice.

It wasn’t worth the fight with her, he knew that, so he grabbed the satchel and took a generous swig. 

“Better not break those pretty teeth of yours,” Davos’ voice sounded from behind Arya.

He rolled his eyes and focused on Arya as she cleanly cut the fabric of his breeches around the arrow.

“Anything I can do to help?” the older man asked nervously.

When she looked up; strands of hair that had fallen out of her braid masked her face.

“Hold him down, he’s going to scream.”

He kept his eyes on her as she cut off the shaft of the arrow delicately until she met his gaze with a worried look on her face.

“You alright?”

He nodded and some part of him wanted to reach for her hand. He decided against it and clenched down harder on the thick leather.

When Arya’s knife cut into his skin, he couldn’t stop his body from jerking towards the heavens and a loud strangled cry calling from his throat. The pain was searing, and his vision suddenly clouded.

“Drink more,” she told him and let him gulp the strong wine down, “Open your mouth.”

He obeyed and felt her place something on his tongue.

“Don’t chew until I’m finished, it’ll help the pain,” she explained and from what he could tell of the texture, he assumed it to be some kind of leaf.

Davos put the leather in his mouth once again as Arya began to cut the skin around the barbs of the arrow, and he clenched his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” he heard her whisper, and he controlled his breathing thinking about her this morning in the wildflowers, or her above him back in Winterfell. Anything to lessen the pain, anything calmer than feeling her cut around in the flesh of his thigh.

Before he even knew it, the arrow had been extracted and she was quickly sowing the wound up, getting ready to burn it. The air around his ears began to buzz, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead and soon he felt himself slipping away.

* * *

After a long day spent in bed for much needed rest, he found him seated, staring blindly at his desk when the servant, Ares, knocked at his door.

His leg still hurt like a bitch, but he had himself to blame; he had refused any dream wine or milk of the poppy Maester Jurne had offered him.

“Lord Gendry, Ser Davos and Princess Arya are waiting to have dinner in the landing.”

He put his head into his hands and sighed deeply. He couldn’t deal with the grey of her irises, or the little arrogant smirk that would grace her lips unconsciously when she got her way. The more he saw it, the weaker he felt. The more he wanted her to stay forever and wake up next to her until he was ready to meet the Gods. She would never stay, that wasn’t who she was and it was only the rational part of him that had awakened during those lonely years

“Tell Davos, that I’m swamped with taxes and can’t join them, Ares, I’m sorry,” he told the young man while rubbing his temples.

“Of course, Lord Gendry.” The man bowed and went his way.

“Ares,” he called, and the man reappeared, “You’ve known me long enough, please call me Gendry.”

The man’s eyes widened, and he smiled.

“As you wish... Gendry.”

He thought of the old housekeeper who strictly made him eat his dinner without fail.

“Could you tell Maggie that I’ll eat in the kitchens tonight?”

“Sure,” Ares said with a smile, closing his door before he ducked away down the corridor.

A few minutes later, his door slammed right open and Davos charged to his desk.

“Taxes my arse boy!” he said in a huff, “Get your royal behind to dinner now!”

Gendry’s ear snuggly fit between his few good fingers left as the older man dragged him to the landing in the drum tower where a table set for three stood.

“Oi! Davos, for fuck's sake!” the Baratheon lord cursed until he met her eyes.

Davos only returned to his seat until Gendry was firmly planted in his own as Maggie served him hearty venison swimming in hot brown gravy.

“Stop being such a stubborn sod! Eat your dinner,” she told him and then turned to Arya, “Would you like some more dear?”

She smiled up at the older woman and shook her head.

“I’m alright thank you,”

Gendry went on to glare Davos for the remainder of the meal while the older man cheerily talked about his wife and the new boat, he got them. She seemed listened aptly, responding and laughing at his jokes. He pathetically scraped his fork on his plate while playing with his food, wishing he could escape acting so immature in front of them both.

“How’s the leg?” Arya suddenly asked him, dunking her meat in gravy with the grace of a two-year-old child.

“Fine,” he told her, “Maester Jurne was impressed.”

“I think we all were!” Davos exclaimed, setting his goblet of wine down rather too forcefully for a sober man, “It was a sight to behold wasn’t it lad?”

Gendry nodded and averted his eyes.

“My lord,” a voice called from the entrance of the landing.

He whipped his head around and saw Lord Buckler, his eyes looking wary.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, rising from the table.

“Princess Arya might want to see this too, it’s from the capital,” the older man said.

Lord Buckler handed him the sealed letter bearing the royal sigil. He knew better than assuming Bran wrote it himself. Tyrion had kept up warm pleasantries during his few trips to King’s Landing, and although their similarities were few, the imp was a good man to drink with. He did all the talking.

He looked up at Arya as he cracked the seal, unravelling the short expanse of paper.

“Shut the door Lord Buckler, and keep your voices low,” he informed his closest bannerman, “This information doesn’t leave the room.”

The Lord of Bronzegate obeyed and made to stand near the hearth as he prepared to read out the letter.

“ _Lord Baratheon,_

_It is feared that King’s Bran rule is under threat by an enemy we cannot determine is either formidable or legitimate. Either way, the dissatisfaction of the commonfolk in the Reach towards their somewhat neglectful Lord Paramount has resulted in the current strikes that we are experiencing in the fields of the Reach. Collectively, this is causing a dramatic decrease in grain production and will ultimately lead to bad relations with our neighbour nation, the North and with the already poor ties with Dorne._

_His Grace cordially invites you to King’s Landing to discuss further plans and extends the invite to Arya Stark who Bran has informed us, is currently residing in your hall._

_Dorne is another mess in itself. I believe you smart enough, to know the few root causes._

_As always, I advise you to err on the side of caution and burn this message._

_-Tyrion"_

As the room distilled into silence, the only sound that graced the landing came when he threw the letter into the hearth and watched it crackle in the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to end on a cliff-hanger but the drama is heating up! next chapter should be up asap


	4. iv - A Smith Lord’s Reluctant Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when the threat of something bigger looms ahead, walls are bound to eventually crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter before things blow up. i will continue to say this but i can't frickin believe how amazing the support of this fic has been! thank you guys so much. 
> 
> the posting of the new few chapters of this fic will probably slow down soon as i'm entering crazy-town with study. 
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, and I love hearing your thoughts about the direction i'm taking with the political plot. 
> 
> hope you all have a fantastic day!

_**-Storm's End-** _

(A Smith Lord's Reluctant Feast)

“What does he mean?” she asked curiously, and Davos just sighed.

“Means that cutthroat cunt might be takin’ the Realm to war,”

“Never liked the fuckin’ prick,” Gendry cursed under his breath, “And the Dornish have always been a damn problem.”

“You mean about the marriage proposition?” Lord Buckler asked teasingly, and Arya’s eyes shot to Gendry’s.

“Unfortunately, yes,”

“The Prince of Dorne proposed marriage?” she asked him abruptly and when she felt the incredulous eyes of the men around her, she quickly made to defend herself, “I’m only asking because male to male relation is becoming more popular in Essosi culture especially amongst the nobles, and that is most likely to spread to Dorne.”

“As much as I think he’s a good lookin’ fellow Arya,” Gendry jested, oddly light-hearted, “He offered me the hand of distant relative of House Martell, ‘to strengthen the Southern alliance’. In common sense, it’s a load of bollocks. I think she was no more than ten and five.”

“So he’s definitely seeking Dornish sovereignty?”

Gendry nodded; his teeth clenched.

“And has he explicitly asked Bran?”

Davos coughed nervously, “I believe it is easier to grant a kingdom independence when the King derives from its ruling house.”

“Why shouldn’t Dorne get their independence, Sansa did not expect it of our brother, she bloody well asked,” she stood up, her chair scraping against the stone, “If it is nepotism, you’re accusing my family of…”

“Enough Arya, Davos meant no ill harm,” Gendry told her, folding his arms against his chest.

She stopped herself from retaliating; the men in the room watching hesitantly for her next move but _he_ stood in challenge; his eyes boring into her own, daring her to draw her catspaw. She wasn’t a fool, she wouldn’t be baited into something like this, however irrational she was sometimes. She focused her breathing and looked at him in his dark tunic. There was no shame in her admitting he was the most handsome man she had ever met. He was the embodiment of her most favoured characteristic:

Strength.

There had been a reason for him surviving through wars, battles and a starving childhood through the Riverlands. With a head that was firmly on his shoulders, she held that one value closely to her heart. She had always admired strong men; her father who was brave to minute his own sword came hurtling to his neck, there was Jon too, who had lived enough to the darkness of death.

She had never looked for protectiveness in Gendry, for he had always been perfectly aware of her own abilities and her own desire to fight for herself. He had her back and for that she was grateful.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised, defeated and even Lord Buckler’s face lit up incredulously, “I didn’t mean to snap, I just do not appreciate my brother’s life being threatened by a cunt like Bronn of the Blackwater.”

There was an exhaustion that rested in her bones, one she was feeling more extensively the more she stayed in Storm’s End. Years of sailing through Essos hadn’t eased the heaviness in her soul. 

“We of all people understand Arya, which is why we’re most concerned about your brother. Bronn as the Master of Coin has caused significant problems with the Royal Treasury,” Lord Buckler explained.

“If you could cause more problems than there already is,” Gendry said under his breath, “Apparently the debts with the Iron Bank go back to Robert Baratheon’s rule.”

“Aye, Littlefinger did manage to fuck us all in the end,” Davos chuckled humourlessly.

Arya tapped her nails on the table.

“If Bran changes the hierarchal system of the Small Council, Bronn will be outraged,” speaking her thoughts out loud, “He couldn’t possibly rally up an army? Not with a kingdom of people who resent him.” 

“Doesn’t need to, he’s a mercenary. If he wants to kill the king, he could do it anytime.” Gendry said.

“But Brienne…”

“Is not bloody you,” he retorted, “She didn’t kill the Night King, is not a bloody assassin either. I don’t think you understand that Bran’s life is in danger.”

“In danger? You think he will try?”

“There is no doubt, something will happen,” Davos replied for Gendry, leaning back in his chair, “You and Arya need to travel to King’s Landing as soon as possible and swear your allegiance and your bannermen. If Bronn is smart as he is cutthroat, then I wouldn’t be surprised if the Dornish caught on suspiciously quickly of a plan to dismantle the Westerosi monarchy. Especially that of a Stark King.”

“Well Bran undoubtably has my support,” Gendry stated, “But what of the other kingdoms? What of the North?”

“The North is not one of Bran’s kingdoms and Sansa can’t send troops, or we’ll be proving their point,” she said frustratedly, “Besides three years is not a long enough time for any army to recuperate fully. All they’ve been doing is fighting battles, they nearly lost their home. No, this isn’t their battle. This is a Southern problem and needs to be dealt with by Southerners. My Uncle in the Riverlands will pledge his banners and if Robin knows what’s best for him…”

“I have a feeling, we’re not the only ones being called to the capital,” Davos said pensively.

Arya looked away worriedly.

“No, it looks like we’re not.” 

* * *

They had retreated to their respective chambers, tense from the discussions a war-filled future.

She assumed that Bran would have sent ravens to those he wanted in King’s Landing, but she knew she must send one to her sister. She asked one of the handmaidens to fetch ink and parchment and dressed in a silk robe she bought in Yi-Ti to battle the humidity that had sunken through the windows. Once the girls had finished, she settled down at the desk, dipping the feather pen in ink. 

_Dear Sansa,_

_I know my hand-writing is atrocious, but I thought you’d appreciate something genuine._

_I’ve spent the last three years travelling Essos as what I discovered to be West of Westeros. As much as I need to tell the Citadel of my findings, there is a more pressing issue._

_Bran’s life is in danger Sansa, and I will not stand from the side and watch this shit country descend into war once again._

_I am with a friend, safe and being well-cared for. I will take care of this problem before it takes root. Yet I may need your help with the other prevailing issue; that of the South. You must know what I imply and if you understand how lacking my skills of diplomacy are, you’ll understand that I require your help._

_We’ll speak soon._

_Lots of love,_

_Your sister, Arya._

She finished the letter and almost laughed at her own abysmal handwriting.

_I’m definitely no lady, one raven and I’m exhausted._

She didn’t exactly know where the rookery was, but she would find it in the morrow when her eyelids felt less like weights of lead. She took herself to her bed; a large oak frame covered in a sea of furs. It reminds her solely of Winterfell and she has a sneaking suspicion that Gendry might have been involved with the choice.

Although the thought warmed her heart, she fell under the covers, sleep enclosing her immediately. 

_The walls were falling apart._

_Brick and mortar crumbled like dried flowers whilst children and women grasped, screamed, burnt to ashes…_

She woke up screaming, gripping her furs with a newfound strength. The reverberation of loud thunder filtered through her room and she could hear how loud the surf broke against the cliffs below.

Her door slammed open and Gendry appeared as lightning stroked the dark room with electric fingers.

Before she could fathom anything, he had moved to her side as she let out a gut-wrenching sob that ripped through the cavity of her chest. In that moment, the walls that they had usually kept so tightly around their hearts dissipated and as she wailed against his chest, he rocked her, back and forth like a babe. Only once her fit had subsided, he gently lay them both down under the furs of her bed, tucking her under his chin as he kissed the crown of her head. Moments and years passed at once as they remained together and she focused solely on the beating of his heart and the warmth of his size, wrapped around her. Everything turned calmer then, reminiscent of the lullaby of a rocking ship in a complacent midnight sea. Somehow, the scent of the forge still clung to him; a gentle aroma of soot, pine and a security that she couldn’t admit to herself for craving so pleasantly.

“Stay with me,” she whispered like a ghost, and he looked at her, his irises glimmering under the moonlight.

He nodded and wrapped the furs around them tighter.

She leant up and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

“I love you,” she told him, looking at him expectantly.

“I know,” he replied gently.

He was looking up at the ceiling, his mouth set in a hard line and she felt her heart clench at his tension.

And in the morning, he had already left, and Arya had never felt colder. 

* * *

After a couple of weeks, the builders who had discreetly been fixing the forge were done and Arya laid the last Dornish rug in the room in the back, smiling to herself.

She left the smithy, dusting her hands.

_I will always be the closest to his heart, I have nothing to fear._

She walked up to the Dining Hall where a feast was being held before Gendry and she travelled to King’s Landing. The Lord of Storm’s End had a tendency to invite even the commonfolk and all who lived in the castle to the festivities where no dais existed and everyone, lowborn or noble, sat and broke bread amongst each other. She could spot him without navigating the sea of long tables filled with boisterous and rough Stormland men. He was dressed in his black leathers that made his blue eyes glimmer, sitting with Hot Pie.

She sat down in front of him and he watched her, his acknowledgement dealt with a nod. She couldn’t help but notice how tense he became, and she ignored it by moving to pile her trencher full of juicy venison and roast vegetables. Hot Pie, who always looked confused at them when they were silent with each other, rolled his eyes and dumped a pie on her plate, beginning to talk about how he made them. She listened half-heartedly until the bards began their songs and he is whisked away by a servant girl with mousy brown hair and a crooked smile.

The ale flowed well into the night and by the time Davos came to sit next to Gendry, there didn’t seem to be a man or woman present who wasn’t fully in their cups.

“Your lady love is right in front of you and you’re still a miserable bastard,” he told him off, slapping his shoulder _hard_ , “Stop being a grumpy shit and get over it!””

Gendry scoffed into his cup. He hadn’t moved from the table all night, but he had drunk his fair share if the pink in his cheeks was anything to indicate. He only seemed to get surlier the more he filled his tankard.

“Sod off Davos,” he grumbled. 

Her heart jumped into her throat as he stood up, stumbling a bit.

“I’m going to bed, good night.”

“Gendry, wait,”

For the first time, she let her composure break and she just _knew_ he noticed when he froze where he stood. Davos began to mutter excuses and trotted off to another table, joyful from the wine.

“Come with me,” she whispered and extended her hand which he looked at hesitantly, “I want to show you something.”

“Show me something in my own keep?” he asked warily, and she rolled her eyes.

She sat up and walked around the tables to be at his side, looking down as she intertwined their fingers and softly pulled him towards her. To her luck, he didn’t protest and followed her out into the yard, matching her brisk pace to the remodelled forge. Her heart is thumping against her chest, twice as fast as the sound when their boots hit the stone. She knew it was entirely unlike her to be so nervous with him, but she was truly taking a gamble.

“Where you takin’ me?” he muttered, stumbling after her. She wonders if he drank himself into a stupor because she was there.

“To kill you,” she replied sarcastically, and he groaned rubbing his temple.

She walked him into to the entrance of the smith and grasped for the key at her waist to open the door. She pulled him inside and went to light a candle.

“What’s this?” he asked, a touch of anger in his tone.

When the room lights up, his does as well, and it suddenly does not matter if he was sober or not because all she could see written on his features was awe.

He circled the forge that’s fitted with three anvils and new equipment; tools of all types lining the walls. The furnace itself, is compact but large enough for shields, plate armour and longer weapons. His eyes rest on a row of workbenches on the southern wall with enough space for the clutter that will definitely come.

“When was the last time you smithed?” she asked him softly.

He didn’t dare make eye contact with her as he walked around the smithy, until he spotted the adjoining room, his feet carrying him as she followed him tentatively to the door. He looked around and touched the humble straw mattress.

“You did this?” he asked her in a daze.

“I would say I’m incapable of renovating an entire forge by myself, but I had it done, yes. Thought you might want something of your own, so you don’t have to share with the other smiths.”

The emotions that flickered over his face made her heart feel like it was breaking.

“Arya,” he said incredulously but she walked over to him and held his hand, rolling her thumb over his fingers, 

“I know it’s not enough to make you forgive me, and it doesn’t have to. I just need you to know that I care for you and you’re my dearest friend. I love you,"

She rose to the tips of her toes to kiss him, part of her remained terrified that he would pull away and tell her to stop but he didn’t move an inch. He let her kiss him until his own eyes fluttered closed and he circled her waist with his hands, pulling her flush against him.

“Gods, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much. I’m sorry Gendry, I didn’t mean to leave you without warning, I was just scared,"”

He didn’t respond, instead, he pressed into her, stoking the fire that had lain dormant in the pit of her stomach for years. But as soon as it had begun, he broke out of the trance and ripped his mouth away from hers, backing against the nearest wall.

“You can’t just...” he panted, his eyes flashing like a maelstrom, “You can’t build me a forge in my _own_ keep and expect me to…”

“What?” she challenged, “You think your plan is working? Every day I spend here, you’re going to try and hate me, but you know what? You’re going to fail. Because you love me, and I know that! There’s no point hiding something that is so plainly obvious.”

“Arya, you _left!_ ” he yelled at her, his brows furrowing with rage, “You left your family and your friends without a second glance because of your fuckin’ list!”

“I’m done with my list!” she screamed, “I’m done with killing, I’m done with running away! I just want my family…”

She didn’t notice as the sobs wracked her body but soon a look of pure pain crossed his face.

“I just want my family Gendry…” she managed between several unattractive wheezes of breath.

He walked up to her, tentatively, gauging her reaction as she willed the tears to dissipate.

“You’re not going to run away again?” he asked, seriousness in his tone.

Her eyes softened and she looked at him, really looked at him.

She shook her head and he sighed.

“I’m not meaning you have to stay here forever, not at all Arya,” he said gently, raising his arms until they fell against his sides again, “But… Tell me, communicate. I’ll even arrange your damn ship. Just don’t disappear when it suits you. I never have and never will take anything to do with you lightly.”

“I wouldn’t, never again,” she assured him, “Gendry I—” 

“My lord!” a voice called out insistently from the door of the forge, “There was a raven.”

Gendry growled low in his throat, the frustration radiating off his furrowed brow.

“What is it?” he snapped, and the page noticeably flinched.

“My lord,” he said nervously, “It’s from Dorne.” 


	5. v - Children of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with of Dorne looming above their heads, a venture to King's Landing is planned sooner rather than later. On a night, under the stars, Arya and Gendry both delve into old wounds of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is more of a filler chapter but i found it necessary for the development of arya and gendry's relationship. 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy reading his chapter, i really like this one. thank you for all the amazing comments, i have really loved reading them all and am always excited to hear new feedback. 
> 
> anyway, here it is: chapter 5

- ** _Storm's End > King's Road-_**

(Children of the Road) 

The page ran from the forge like it was on fire.

The scroll stammered violently in between his fingers and he dared himself to look up at Arya.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

He never thought he would have gotten such a heartfelt confession from her and nevertheless, she had kissed him like he was her dying breath. It had felt sweet, nothing like what he had envisioned; in his dreams, her lips never tasted like salt, they tasted like fire might. But the burns were worth losing himself in. Arya Stark had always burnt a raging hole through his heart, whether or not they had been children once or when she loved him as a woman. The thought of her staying with him was beyond overwhelming and the day when it all came into place, Dorne itself had to knock on his bloody door.

“From Dorne?” Arya asked him nervously but equally part furious as him.

He felt himself snarl, the thought of kissing her still remained heavy in his mind.

“Open it,” she told him

“Who knows?” he huffed under his breath sarcastically, “The letter could be fuckin’ poisoned.”

Arya took the letter from him abruptly and unravelled it.

_Lord Baratheon,_

_A friendship between our bordering kingdoms is something I truly desire for both of us and of course, for the good of the Realm. I have, however, been advised that the arrival of the she-wolf Arya Stark has left you somewhat distracted if I daresay._

_You might need time to reconsider my offer to better our relations._

_If Dorne is not enough for you then you will find yourself with fewer friends_

_-Your friend_

Her eyes looked up to him, her irises the colour of molten iron.

“Didn’t even sign off with his name, how am I supposed to remember it now?” he jested nervously.

“You know what this means right?” she asked him, a cutting edge to the voice that ignored him.

He groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, “Arya, don’t…”

“It means you’re fucked,” she told him like one may observe the weather, “You're absolutely fucked.”

She turned around and grit her teeth, close to stamping her foot like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“What would you like me to do about that? Marry a child?” he questioned, settling down on the mattress, “Arya, surely it can’t be so dire.”

“It is dire, you insufferable idiot,” she turned her fierce gaze on him once again, “You could be killed.”

The last part caught him indefinitely, his heart easily skipped two beats.

“Arya…” he called to her softly, but he could see an unspoken sadness embedded in her rage.

“You don’t know how to play this game, I don’t either and… Men are terrible in this country. It doesn’t matter if they’re from Dorne or the Reach or wherever they’re the bloody same. Why the bloody _fuck_ did you think I wanted to leave so bad?”

She bit her lip, a turbulent entourage of emotions quivering on her face. He could see the uncertainty in her poise, the aura

“I will kill anyone who dares hurt you,” she told him, and he chuckled incredulously, “Gendry, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, yeah I know Lady Stab-a-lot,” he teased, “You’ve never failed to let people know how capable you are.”

There was spite in his voice, he knew of it.

“Look Gendry…” she looked up to the ceiling of the forge and sighed, “I know you don’t forgive me for what I did, and that’s okay. But I wouldn’t mind staying here to be with you after everything is settled, not as your wife…. Just…”

He watched her in the corner of his eye. She had hit the hammer on the head of the nail; he did not forgive her, not yet at least. She had broken a certain trust that he was sure of breaking when he vowed to continue on with the Brotherhood. He had put his heart on his sleeve, and she had run away, without an inkling of care. He knew her, he knew that she would run if anything got too hard. And King’s Landing was a perfect demonstration for her to rebuild their friendship, brick by brick. The woman that appeared in Winterfell three years ago was a woman he truly didn’t know, and he was a fool for telling himself otherwise. There was no doubt that slivers of Arry appeared from time to time; a hint in her smile when they talked to Hot Pie, the way she tugged her bottom lip in between her teeth or when she gave in to her childish irrationalities that the calculating mask dissipated. 

“I never said I wanted you as my wife now,” he told her harshly, “If you truly decide to want to stay after all this, I’d be honoured. I cannot want all or nothing but Arya if you ever want to leave, you tell me, _well_ in advance. I will not put my trust in you for it to be ripped to shreds again.”

She nodded and eyed the letter in her hand.

“I will always be there for you,” he said truthfully, “Even if you break my heart a thousand times, and I know… I know you don’t appreciate the words or how dramatic I’m being, but Arya I swear to the Gods… If you dangle prospects of what I have yearned for my entire life and then run…”

“You’re my friend, aren’t you?” she snapped suddenly, her arms crossing over her chest, “And I came back, didn’t I? I could have sailed to White Harbour and travelled to the Winterfell to be with my sister. I could have gone further North and been with Jon. No, but I come to the Stormlands with the worst possible bay to dock in so I can see you, so I can be with you. I’ll steal your words, Lord Baratheon, I do not take it lightly, I never will. You are my family and I have your back.”

He smiled at her.

“I believe you m’lady,”

“Call me that again and I’ll throw you in your bay,” she warned and he only laughed, “We need to leave to King’s Landing, now,”

“I’ll leave Davos a note, he’ll understand,” he said, getting up.

She nodded and followed him out of the forge.

* * *

_-On the King’s Road-_

_(A day to King’s Landing)_

They had spent a half a night and an entire day on the road until they dare to stop.

Arya shot down two rabbits for supper while he was ordered to light a small fire in a discrete clearing off the road.

They didn’t talk about what happened in the forge, nor did try anything beyond the subtle and slightly accidental brush of a hand or knowing gaze. As much as he yearned for a room with a lock on the door in the middle of the bloody ocean, he knew she was preoccupied, tense and boiling with rage. He would be too if someone had threatened the life of his family. It took a significant amount of self-control to settle himself around her, but her proposition to be in his life had awoken a litany of internal complaints. He did love her, that much was true, and he stuck by his cynical faith of what he carried as a young boy growing up in shit-stinking Flea Bottom; people didn’t change and they never did.

Arya was the perfect example, even as she skinned and gutted their rabbits, he could tell that the blankness on the canvas of her face was all but a façade. He had seen her in the mud of Harrenhal, seen her face rapists and criminals. She was strong, and strength didn’t come in the numbers of the men she had assumingly killed. In came in the eyes as she prepared to watch him die, in the certainty of her body as they shared her first time together on the last night of their lives. If anyone knew Arya, it was him and it was a laughable concept that he wasn’t even close. Whoever thought her infallible or invincible was certainly a fool, and mayhaps most of Westeros were fools.

“Are you going to brood all night or are you going to help me?”

Gods, he was always told that she’d make a frightful wife one-day and here she was now; the bloody catspaw she used to kill the damn Night King in hand and a pile of entrails by her side. She was beautiful

“You look like you’re handling it quite well m’lady,” he teased, and she scowled.

“I should throw something at you,” she threatened, and he barked out a hearty laugh.

“I don’t see any crab apples, do you?” he stood up and began to find his own hunting knife, intending to sharpen a stick so they could roast the meat over the fire.

He caught the smile that slowly graced her lips, her eyes simmering with nostalgia.

“I remember that,” she said distantly, “You were being a right arse.”

“Yes, because I thoroughly enjoyed watching my friend flirt with a pompous little shit,” he goaded her, and she fake gasped.

“I did not flirt with him; I was a child!”

“Aye, a child. And I marvel, who’s eyes went wondering on that fateful day in Harrenhal when someone told me I should stand side-face?”

“Who smiths without a shirt?” she countered, but her smirk betrayed her outrage. 

They fell into a comfortable silence and he watched her as she prepared the meat and he passed her the stick.

“We work well together, you and I, y’know?” she told him, and he looked up, “Maybe instead of asking me to become a lady of your keep, you could have proposed for us to run off into the Riverlands, never to be seen again.”

“Like outlaws huh?” he smiled and started shaving another twig, “I know we were starving, but am I an idiot to say life was so much better?”

She placed a rabbit over the fire and shook her head.

“Life was marginally better back then,” she assured, and he nodded his head, “Maybe the Gods intended for us to live cruel lives.”

He listened to the crackles of the fire amongst the orchestra of the forest alive. He had always liked them on the road, just the two of them and he had an inkling that she felt the same way. No expectations existed here, maybe only the uncertainty of who was prowling around in the night. But with the Bringer of Dawn cooking his dinner with her pack spread out next to his and their horses grazing nearby, he had nothing to fear.

“These are ready," 

She passed him a stick and his belly rumbled at the salivating aroma.

“We should talk,” she insisted, and he raised an eyebrow, “Well… I need to talk.”

“About?” he questioned, ripping into the meat and rejoicing as the juices dribbled down his chin.

“Where I went… Much before,”

“After I was taken?” he confirmed and her face told all, “It would be nice to hear that then, I’ve heard a concoction of thrilling interpretations in taverns in King’s Landing. You were apparently a courtesan in Lys in one of them.”

She laughed and threw her head back.

“There might have been many faces, but I assure you, there weren’t as many exhilarating adventures,” she abandoned her meat for a skin of wine, and she took a hesitant sip, “I did go across the Narrow Sea though. To Braavos.”

“Braavos?” he repeated and watched the corner of her lips lift, “Wasn’t that red-haired cunt Braavosi?”

She let out a laugh and rested her elbows on her knees, “You pieced that together awfully quickly. Yes, Jaqen H’Ghar was from Braavos. Do you remember that coin he gave me?”

“Faintly,”

“I was meant to go somewhere else, maybe try and get back home,” she said wistfully, “After the Hound… Oh, yeah well the Hound came and stole me away after you were sold off to that Red Bitch. Tried to ransom me off to Robb at the Twins but we were… We were just a little bit too late.”

She managed the words only barely, he noticed, watching the way her lips quivered. He had thought she had died in the Twins at the Red Wedding, had even wept over it when he had heard _that_ singular interpretation.

“I can’t tell you about it… Not just yet but maybe one-day Gendry,” she said, and he nodded in understanding, “But after that, he tried with my aunt in the Vale, my mother’s sister. But she had died too.”

“He said you left him for dead,” he remembered that day in the forge.

“I did," she smirked at the memory, "He and Brienne of Tarth fought, and I left him bleeding out on the side of a hill.”

“Then Braavos?” he asked and she nodded, smiling. The Hound could be a cunt.

“That coin came in handy; I said the words ‘Valar Moghulis’ to a sailor and showed him the coin and it was a passage across the Narrow Sea.”

He licked his fingers and settled the stick on the ground, his belly warm with enough food.

“What’s Braavos like?” he asked, and she looked up with surprise.

“Beautiful actually, but it smells like fish,” she let out a laugh, “I went somewhere… The House of Black and White. That’s where Jaqen was and long story short… I had started training with the Faceless Men.”

“Faceless Men? Sounds…”

“Mysterious yes, they’re assassins,” the distant look in her eyes returned and he flinched, “They use the faces of the dead, and magic… To take the form of that face. You’re required to give everything up; your life, your family… Your identity. They wanted Arya Stark gone and I was meant to serve.”

“You must have eventually left, right?” he asked her, pushing her onwards.

“Yes, yes I did,” she whispered, her eyes on the fire, “I killed someone from my list; Merryn Trant.”

She said the name with such distaste he shivered.

“I wasn’t meant to kill him; it wasn’t a name I was meant to take. So they took my sight, and I was forced to train blind with a girl there, I called her the Waif and she beat me a lot. I was meant to kill an actress; her name was Lady Crane. I didn’t though, and the Waif found out.”

She let out a long sigh.

“She wore a face and then stabbed me,” she gestured to her stomach where he knew the scars were, “Lady Crane saved my life, stitched me up but the bitch killed her… She chased me through the city until I was sure I was going to die.”

His heart constricted and he longed to reach for her, “But you didn’t.”

“No,” she laughed again, “I didn’t. I had Needle. I actually thought of Jon before she came for me. The first thing he told me when he gave me Needle was ‘stick em’ with the pointy end’. So I did.”

“Then you came home,” he released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, his chest constricting painfully.

“Not quite,” she smiled, “I’m sure you heard about the Freys.”

“Bloody Hells, that was you?” he asked, suddenly revitalised, “They said, all but the women perished.”

She laughed at his shock.

“That’s a story for another day.”

She passed the wineskin to him and he took a generous gulp.

“It’s late, we should sleep,” she finally announced, “You take first watch, I did all the talking.”

He shook his head with a laugh but obliged. He watched her as she stood up and made her way to their packs, looking behind her to ask him silently to follow. He got up too and made his way to her, letting her settle under the furs until he moved in beside her, sitting up against the trunk of a tree. He could feel how her warmth radiated against his thigh.

“Can I ask you something?” he heard her request and nodded.

“Anything,”

She pursed her lips and met his eyes without a shred of uncertainty.

“Something would have happened in the forge if the page hadn’t interrupted us,” it was more of a fact than a question, but he let her continue, “Would you have had me?”

Ever since he saw her in the doorway almost two moons ago, he was blinded with rage and it took weeks of convincing himself that she wouldn’t run away too soon for him to revert back to any sort of perverted fantasy regarding her. The first time that had lain together had been magical, like nothing he had ever experienced. The stumbles they had afterwards were almost even better, but he always wondered what it would be like to take her undoubtedly, on the softness of a featherbed and the confidence of the time to properly worship her.

“I’ll be honest Arya… I would have and it would have been like all the other times; quick and fumbled. But now… You weren’t the only person who was hurt and I just… I just need some time before we do that again if that’s alright with you.”

Her brows furrowed in question.

“Tell me what happened when you’re ready, okay?” she urged him and he smiled, “I’d like to know.”

“I’d like you to know too,” he assured her but felt his heart clench with fear, “I just don’t know where to start.”

“It’s alright,” she said, and he took a deep breath.

“Melisandre,” he simply stated and watched Arya’s eyebrows rise, “She showed me things that every lowborn lad dreams about when his belly’s grumblin’ from hunger at night; food, riches, a room that could have fit an entire family. And she was an attractive woman, I guess. No point lying.”

“You and Anguy didn’t fail to remind me,” she snorted, and he chuckled.

“But you were damn right about not liking her, she was a witch and… She’s the one who told me about my parentage. She said I had king’s blood and then she continued to…”

She put a hand on his forearm, and he breathed out shakily.

“She… She started taking her clothes off and then she strapped me to a bed…”

“Leeched you?” she asked softly, and he bit his lip, nodding his head.

“Arya… At the start, it was alright but then… I didn’t want it,” he told her, “I was scared, I was helpless and Gods… It’s fucked me up. All the men, ‘specially the Brotherhood, they all told me to stop whinging but…”

“Fuck them,” she said abruptly, and he looked up to her, “She hurt you… Assaulted you. It was against your will.”

He looked away, almost kicking himself at eliciting pity from her. That was the last thing he wanted.

“I should have been more considerate the first time,” she said guiltily but he shook his head.

“You were everything I needed; you still are… I just… Old demons, y’know.”

She smiled, “I would know better than anyone.”

He sighed in relief at the lightness of his chest. He had never told a living soul of how much the encounter with the Red Woman impacted him, not knowing who would take him seriously.

“It seems like we’ve both got a lot of healing to do,” she said, and he scoffed, “But maybe that’s something to work on together.”

“Aye, I’d like that Arya.” 

She sat up and gave him a small kiss on the lips.

“Sleep well,” he told her affectionately, cupping her face and tracing her cheekbone.

“You too, make sure you wake me up,” she told him softly, resting her forehead against his, “We’ll be fine, you and I.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes, and he sat back, a foreign warmth budding in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: King's Landing


	6. vi - A Nest Full of Serpents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry arrive in King's Landing, forced to concede with a dinner with the Lord Paramount of the Reach. Arya finds truths and decisions are ultimately made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update time has really increased, and i'm sorry! got a lot on my plate at the moment but writing this is really cathartic and great stress relief! 
> 
> i hope that you guys enjoy this chapter, i was excited to bring in the new political sphere of this story as i never intended for it to just remain centric on gendry and arya's relationship. but thankfully, theirs is budding and i released y'all from the nailbiting angst that had me wanting to smash my head against my own laptop. 
> 
> i am so thankful for the wonderful support that i've been getting, especially a particular tumblr post that just made me into a blushing mess. you guys rock my world and how you find the time to write such thoughtful comments is beyond me! 
> 
> i absolutely appreciate new feedback and i dedicate time to reading each individual comment that you guys write, as it's important to me that I am doing this right. 
> 
> enjoy chapter 6 and i will see you next (hopefully in a reasonable amount of time).
> 
> <3

_-King’s Landing-_

(A Nest Full of Serpents) 

When King’s Landing came into sight, she felt the ice harden in her veins.

She was certain that Gendry’s tense shoulders beside her were from the same sight. If she wasn’t mistaken, they both detested the city as much as each other, and she hadn't lain her foot on the ashen bed of its desolate grave for years. He, however, had told her that he had been called for various council meetings mostly adjourned by Tyrion himself where each time he had returned, he hated the city more. The trek through the reconstructing streets was an abysmal sight; Gendry had mentioned that nearly the entirety of Flea Bottom had been reduced to ashes. She told him in return that she had been amongst the crowds in those streets herself whilst the flames scorched the backs of her heels.

Once they had reached the Red Keep, or what was left of it, she wrestled with the strong urge to run away. But with Gendry at her side, she had no choice but to face those demons.

With her brother and Tyrion in sight, she pushed her mare on, silently motioning Gendry to do the same. As always, he picked up her verbless communication without hesitation and she watched the black destrier he rode, enter her field of vision. They slowed their trotting and dismounted, letting squires take away their steeds to the stables. Bran sat in his chair, staring up at them as she removed her riding gloves. 

“Welcome Arya, Lord Baratheon,” the King of Westeros greeted from his chair, oddly cheerily.

“Brother,” she greeted, refraining from bowing however low Gendry was already aligned to the floor. 

“Lord Gendry, you and I have known each other long enough, there is no need to bow,” Bran said in an awfully regal voice, “You must both be tired from your journey…”

“Bran why did you call us here?” she asked suddenly, and Tyrion suddenly stood up straighter.

“Princess Arya… If I may,”

“You _may_ call me Arya,” she told him pointedly, “I’m no princess.”

“You are, twice over,” Gendry grumbled from behind her and she had half the mind to kick him. 

“Arya then…” he bowed, a sadness in his eyes, “It’s best you meet us for dinner, take your time to unpack and relax.”

She eyed him warily; his causal and formal tone felt out of place and he looked truly miserable. Bran and Grey Worm had apparently set their punishment well, she thought, even though Davos had managed to slip away from his position as Master of Ships, she didn’t know of a sane living soul who would want to stay in this wretched city. Watching Tyrion and Podrick wheel Bran out of the courtyard, she walked forward, trusting Gendry to follow her like how her shadow did. Instead, he stood where he was, arms crossed over his chest with a small grin laced on his lips.

“Goin’ somewhere, are you? And perhaps her highness knows her way around every castle,”

She lifted an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I’ve lived here before stupid, I think I know my way around,” she told him, “And don’t you dare call me that!”

His smirk only got wider.

“Of course you did, you bloody rich girl,”

She kicked him in the shin and stormed away, ignoring how he dramatically hopped on one foot just to goad her more. She disappeared amongst the hallways until she found the rooms that she had occupied as a young girl; she knew Bran too well, her chambers had already been set up for her, a bath in the middle of the room. Gendry had somehow managed to follow suit, and he looked around carefully from the doorway.

“Not bad for royalty, huh?”

“Shut up,” she said but reached for his hand anyway, tugging slightly.

“Arya… We can’t,” he quickly retracted his fingers from her, and she frowned deeply.

“And why not Lord Baratheon?” she asked, feeling her brow crease.

“Because we’re _here_ , in this fuckin’ horrible place... We’re not married Arya, and servants carry rumours worse than…”

“If you’re thinking that you’d besmirch my honour,”

He barked out in laughter and she found herself scowling again.

“Honour m’lady? That’s comical,” he shook his head in disbelief and gave her an oddly affectionate look, “We both know that you wouldn’t give a rat’s arse about _honour.”_

He leant down and pressed a kiss against her lips. She immediately sunk into his warmth, the desire to pull him into the room and look the door was overwhelming.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he told her, reaching for the door, “Scrub up, you’re covered in mud.”

He gave her one last wink before he closed the door fully and she was left grumbling curses.

“Like you aren’t too,” she whispered to herself, turning to the tub that simmered with steam.

She could use a nice warm bath to lessen the tension in her shoulders, she was treated with such luxury in Storm’s End and there were many open baths in Essos.

She stripped her leathers and dumped them in a pile, climbing into the copper tub one limb at a time until she was settled in the near-boiling water that held an essence of jasmine oil. She sighed and subconsciously nestled her hair in a bun at the back of her head, preparing for what would most likely be a disastrous dinner. 

* * *

Dinner was truly a painful event.

Not only was it excruciating not to be able to continue her affections with Gendry, it seemed as though the entire Realm were watching the scene unfold. _We’re actors,_ she thought distastefully, watching Bronn pick his teeth with a chicken bone, _and the Gods are laughing at us._ She was brought back by a soft clasp of calloused fingers on her thigh, hidden away by the silk of the tablecloth. She liked the warmth that his hand on her leg emitted, the security and reassurance of his support known truly by her. She didn’t dare look at him lest her face release to the particular softness it always seemed to do when she was around him.

Tyrion attempted the initiation of some kind of conversation by bringing up plans for the construction of a new brothel. However, she knew even in jest that Gendry would not take it very lightly. It wasn’t new news that the Crown was struggling to pay for the reconstruction of the city, Cersei Lannister had seemingly followed her family’s words for the payment of Golden Company and years of Baelish’s untidy loans had incurred an outstanding debt with the Iron Bank.

“A brothel?” Gendry suddenly asked incredulously, standing up so suddenly his dinner fork clanked down on his plate, “You’re telling me you’re going to build a brothel before you even consider reconstructing Flea Bottom?”

Sam had flinched at the outburst and hid behind his golden goblet of water.

Bronn instead, snorted in his cup and challenged him with an arrogant smirk, “Don’t need to go all righteous on us, ‘ours is the fury’. Just because your celibate arse doesn’t like the company of the fine ladies of this city…”

“You think exploiting the ‘fine ladies of this city’ is going to make King’s Landing any better?” Gendry glared down at the Lord of the Reach.

“Exploitation? Now that’s low even for you Baratheon innit?” Bronn feigned his insult, “You seem to have a lot of ideas, mayhaps you should petition to become king.” 

That only made her bull even more enraged.

“Look here, I don’t know where the bloody fuck you’re from but you…”

“Gendry,” she said quietly, looking up at him with a knowing expression.

_We’ll deal with this later, calm down you stubborn bull._

His eyes looked almost pleading but she saw the tension ebb slowly out of the protruding vein of his neck and the clench of his jaw.

_But he…_

_Trust me._

He looked back at the former sellsword who raised a carefree eyebrow.

“I apologise your Grace, but as someone who knows this city better than anyone, you need inns and taverns, places for men to meet and drink after their trade. Not brothels. Brothels will just promote a way of life that has continued for an age. We need to stop exploiting the commonfolk,”

He sighed and sat back down, his hand finding hers again.

She looked at him then, a proudness overcoming her chest. He had always been strong, her friend, always ready to defend those who could not stand for themselves.

“You have every right to speak Lord Baratheon, it was your home,” Bran said from the end of the table and Gendry’s fingers tightened around her palm, “I’ve always enjoyed your counsel, and your experience needs to be taken into consideration. I would have your suggestion implemented as quickly as possible, Lord Tyrion?”

“Of course, your Grace,”

Arya felt herself smile, knowing that giving way to a more rational approach to a silent battle always guaranteed a victory.

“Bronn, how fairs your position as Master of Coin?” she asked, attempting to rile the horrid man.

He narrowed his eyes at her but nevertheless, cleared his throat. 

“It must have missed you that the Royal Treasury is in some strife with the Iron Bank,” he replied carefully, most likely witnessing the staring contest across the dinner table.

“Have you considered a payment scheme? Something that will be a little gentler on the Westerosi economy,” she proposed, and the Hand looked at her like she had grown a second head.

“Someone would need to ambassador the Crown to propose the idea,” Bran announced, and she felt Gendry tightened his fingers once again.

“Who were you thinking your Grace?” Tyrion asked him and her brother’s eyes found hers.

“I think there’s only one person who would suit the role,” he replied. 

“I’ll go,” she answered and all men in the room began to stare at her.

After a moment of elongated silence, Tyrion swigged the remaining wine from his cup and set it down harshly.

“Then it is done, Princess Arya is going to Braavos,”

A weight settled in the pit of her chest.

“Braavos Arya?” Gendry asked her as he walked beside her to her chambers, “Are you bloody kidding me?”

“No one else is going to manage it, I can speak Braavosi, I can appeal to them,” she told him, feeling her leathers flap against her thighs with each purposeful stride she took to keep up with Gendry’s frustrated pace, “I know you may not think me politically capable but there is no one better for this than me.”

“Arya,” he stopped abruptly, halting her too with a firm hand locked around her wrists, “There is no one more capable of that than you. You've always been so bloody smart, you were Tywin Lannister's cupbearer for the Gods' sake. It’s a matter of sending you there, alone, possibly for moons.”

She scoffed and let a smile grace her lips.

“One moon, that’s all I need,”

They started to walk again and in the corner of her eye, she saw him give her an unconvinced look, his brows furrowing darkly.

“You might’ve killed the Night King but you’re not damn invincible, you need an escort at least,” he argued stubbornly. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose, knowing exactly where he was leading the conservation; pushing her, willing her to fight with him. But she was no complacent doe, she wouldn’t give this up and it wouldn’t compromise anything.

“What? An escort of men who could be picked off as easy as flies? Gendry do you remember who I killed..?" 

“Take bloody Brienne, I wasn’t referring to some green boys still falling on their arses in the tiltyard,” he said back but she closed her eyes and let a deep breath.

“I’m going to Braavos Gendry, I love you and your stubborn bull arse, but you or anyone else will not impact my decision. I’m free to do as I please,” she told him firmly, matching the ferocity of his cerulean glare with her own made of the grey of the North, “Tell me why this is troubling you so much you so much,”

They reached her door and she pushed it open, their hands still intertwined. He didn’t protest when she brought him fully into her chambers and closed the door behind them.

“It bothers me that… That I just got you back and now you’re off somewhere else…” he admitted and looked around the room.

“You think I want to go?” she asked in a tone more hostile than she would have liked, “I’d rather stay here and keep you safe, keep Bran safe.”

“And I can’t want to keep you safe too?” he asked as if he was in pain, his face contorted.

“You’re allowed to…” she said softly as he stepped into her space and rested his forehead against hers, “I just don’t need you worrying, I can take care of myself”

He chuckled and touched his nose against her own, “I always worry about you, troublemaker,”

“Says you, bullhead,” she teased back, stealing a peck on his lips that had him grinning like a boy.

After a moment of stillness, basking in the weight of his presence, Gendry’s eyes opened and he stepped back an inch, watching her carefully.

“A moon? You’re sure?”

She bit her lip.

“You’ll hear from me if it’s longer,”

“Arya… You promise me…”

“Yes!” she confirmed, feeling the storm quake in her chest once again, “I’m no child Gendry, you either trust me or don’t expect such things.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not an obligation to alert me whether you’re dead or not,” he told her, spite rolling off his tongue as if in defence, “I ask you to do it because you’re my…”

“My what Gendry?” she asked suddenly, perplexed by the transformation.

He scrunched his nose up.

“I don’t even know what you are… A lover? A friend?” he said in a quiet, detached voice that lacked his lordly authority she had seen at dinner.

“I’m your _mate_ ,” she told him confidently, watching the confusion unfold in his eyes

“My mate?" he asked, looking almost insulted.

“Like wolves, like a wolf pack Gendry and you’re my pack…” she explained, and she watched him nod slowly, “You’re my family… And wolves do mate for life.”

“So… My…”

“We’re partners, we’re _mates,”_ she concluded and felt realisation sink into his face, “It’s just you and I, we’re not married, we don’t need to be, but we’re secured by another vow.”

He smiled at her analogy and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I like that, my _mate_ ,” he teased fondly, and she rolled her eyes.

“I don’t belong to you,” she said, and he stared at her, waiting for her to continue, “And you don’t belong to me, but at this moment I want to believe that I am yours and you are mine.”

He smiled deeply and moved forward to press his lips against hers gently.

“You should sleep,” he finally told her when they pulled away for air.

“Stay with me tonight?” she urged, a fire raging in her heart and somewhere further south.

“You’ll be the death of me Arya Stark, Gods above,” he said whilst chuckling, letting her tug him forward with the laces of his jerkin.

When her fingers moved to remove them, he stopped her, fear swirling in his eyes. She halted her movements immediately. 

“I… I can’t… Just not yet,” he said, sighing.

She cupped his cheek and kissed him on the cheek as gently as she could muster.

“It’s alright Gendry, you don’t need to explain yourself to me,” she told him, and his face softened, “Just… I want you to stay tonight please.”

He considered her for a moment and then nodded, removing his jerkin and his boots. She followed suit, turning around for minimal privacy, and started stripping down to her smallclothes. She could feel Gendry’s warm gaze on her back as she threw on a loose tunic that rested at her mid-thigh before rotating around to face him. He had discarded his tunic as well and remained in his light breeches. She moved past him to sink into her bed underneath the furs and covers, brushing him almost purposely.

“I didn’t realise it was possible for you to become more beautiful,” he said sheepishly as he followed her, “But here you are.”

“You’re stupid,” she told him and settled down against his chest, her fingers sprawled against his skin.

“ _You’re_ stupid,” he retaliated, a smile slipping his lips, “And undeniably beautiful.”

She felt a warmth settling in all the holes her insecurities left, deep within her subconsciousness. It was not as if she needed a man to help her through her processing, but something in her told her that if it was Gendry helping the stimulation of degraded self-esteem, then it was alright.

She smiled and curled up closer to him.

“Shut up and go to sleep,”

* * *

No one in their right mind should have appointed Bronn.

As much as she knew the man oozed distrust, following him in the shadows of the Red Keep accentuated her point even more so. Although the whistling continued and he strutted forward like a pompous fool, the glint of his blade was still evident at his back.

However, as dangerous as he did seem, Arya saw hesitance. It was not only in his gait but in his eyes; how they wavered nervously from one wall to the other. She had picked up the odd trait at dinner, and there in the hallway, she saw in its unbridled form. She followed it all the way to his chambers that he left carelessly open, a whore sitting on his bed, picking her nails with disinterest and lack of use. He was writing, scratching away at his desk and she smiled. 

It seemed as though she had a raven to catch.

She had headed in a southern direction of the castle almost immediately at the sight of the potential letter. She had only a few minutes of crucial time to enact her plan but remaining confident, she spotted something hopeful amongst the pale blue canvas of the Gods. 

She raised her bow gently to the black dot, as it got closer and closer...

_Be the one, please be the one._

She made out the feathers and she let the arrow fly. The raven fell quickly, plummeting gracefully out of the sky. It had spiralled to the ground in a deserted courtyard, still laden with uprooted brick. Appearing out her hiding place, she marched casually, bending down to pick it up and tugged out the rolled parchment, secured with twine.

_Gods, please be the one._

She tugged the twine loose and rolled out the short letter.

_You have my support. The bastard is away Get your plan into motion. I’ll deal with him and the wolf bitch myself._

_-B_

Her lips turned upwards in a knowing smile and kept walking in the direction for the Keep.

She walked into the Small Council room purposely, Tyrion already seated and Bran in his chair at the table. Gendry was nowhere to be seen and she was glad for it.

_I will tell him later,_ she thought to herself, knowing that he would most likely piece it together himself. He was a smart man, more than anyone gave credit to. 

“It must be important if you desperately need us awake this early after a heavy night of drinking,” said the half-man, before raising a goblet of wine to his lips.

She ignored the jest and refused to sit, placing her hands behind her back as she took small steps around the table.

“You must forgive me for being concerned for the welfare of my brother but remind me again who invited Gendry and I to King’s Landing so last minute,” she returned, and the man only bowed his head in acceptance.

“That was in no-fault, it seems,” she continued, watching Bran’s distant eyes fall on her, “I’m not sure if he told you but Gendry received a letter from Dorne with a tone with none other than passive aggression.”

“Dorne is _not_ our biggest problem at the moment…” grumbled Tyrion but Bran raised a hand to silence him.

“Show him, Arya,” her brother urged, all-knowing of her antics.

She smiled and took the letter out from her pocket, handing it to Tyrion.

“I had my suspicions ever since our pleasant dinner last night, a Dornish and Reach alliance would be frightful to the Crown wouldn’t it?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, “I intercepted a raven flying due south this morning, an odd time for a man who would find it ‘too early after a night of drinking’. It would be wise to start making Dorne your biggest concern now.”

The Hand’s own eyebrows raised at the words in the letter and he put it down almost lethargically.

“The Dornish seem to have a problem with Gendry, and as he has continually refused to marry the Dornish relative who is no older than ten and fifteen that the Prince of Dorne has proposed a betrothal for...” she explained to Tyrion, not being able to comprehend Gendry’s extent of correspondence to the Crown, “It seems as though, not being able to sink their talons into a neighbouring kingdom has caused… Tension,”

“And Lord Baratheon… Is he not phased by this upgrade of, as you say, tension?”

“I wouldn’t doubt that he’s preoccupied being the Lord Paramount of that region," she told him, a glare sent in his direction, "But he would never marry a child for the sake of settled relations, he and Ser Davos have told me so.”

“Does that have anything to do with you?” Tyrion asked bravely whilst Bran remained indifferent, his hands clasped in his lap.

“The proposition came much before my arrival, and regardless of what you are implying my lord, would you personally marry a child as young as that?" 

She had hit a nerve, one that had made him visibly uncomfortable if the knot in his Adam's apple was anything to go by. His marriage to her sister must have been equally as distasteful. 

“I do believe Lord Baratheon has sensibility," he leaned forward in his chair, setting the goblet back on the table, "But correct me if I’m wrong when I tell you that you and Lord Baratheon were obviously… _Acquainted,_ before you left on your travels.”

“Lord Baratheon and Arya have known each other since Ned Stark was executed,” her brother calmly explained, “She rejected his proposal of marriage after the Battle of Winterfell.”

Arya felt her heart stammer in her chest momentarily before she glared at the man in the chair that did not have a shred of her brother in him any longer.

“And now? Are you intending to marry him?” Tyrion asked.

“No, she will not marry Lord Baratheon,” Bran answered for her and her heart felt heavy again, “And he will not ask her again.”

“I did not come here to have my personal affairs exposed,” she snapped and nearly made Tyrion jump in his chair, “There is a situation with Bronn, problems with the Iron Bank and now a dilemma with the Dornish. I came here to be informed.”

The Hand tapped his golden ring on the table and took a deep breath.

“This raven that you have intercepted is just the last bit of evidence we need to confirm our suspicions, Arya, you were wise to consider following the direction of his correspondence for I wouldn't have had the brains to do it myself,” he told her, rolling the letter again, “But this also extends as a threat to Lord Baratheon’s safety, have you considered that?”

She swallowed and thought of the man whom she wanted safe so drastically it hurt her heart.

“If he even dares hurt a hair on Gendry’s head, I will have no hesitation in killing him,” she returned truthfully, “You’re risking too much with Bronn as Master of Coin.”

“Which is why we are dismissing him of the position,” Tyrion told her, and she stopped her pacing, “The matters in the Reach need to be dealt with.”

“Is it an excuse? Or are you telling the truth about the lowered produce of grain?” she asked, pulling out a chair.

“Unfortunately, it works perfectly for us as it is absolutely the truth,” the dwarf told her, rubbing his temples, “At this rate, we’ll all bloody starve.”

“And Braavos?”

“You know what you have to do Arya,” Bran said cryptically.

“Truly? Do you think it’s wise to alert them of the possibility of another war?” she confirmed, and her brother just blinked.

“You were planning to sell the proposition of war to the Braavosi?” Tyrion asked her instead and she turned her attention to the more talkative in the room, “That’s a bloody brilliant idea, are you assuming they’ll fund us?”

“The Crown cannot physically afford another war, unfortunately, but there is no chance that Bronn and Dorne can acquire more allies. The Riverlands and the Vale would not dare to turn against Bran, knowing that we are all related through our mother…”

“And Gendry Baratheon’s loyalty will always lie with the woman he loves,” Bran announced, almost turning Arya red, “It guarantees the support from all the remaining Great Houses.”

“You forget Sansa,” she reminded him, and he nodded his head uncharacteristically.

“You also forget our cousin,” he countered, and she screwed her face up in confusion.

“What of the Iron Islands?” Tyrion asked concerned.

“Yara Greyjoy is busy rebuilding the Iron Islands, it seemed that Euron Greyjoy had little interest in his domestic affairs,” Bran answered for him, “She simply cannot build enough ships for an armada in the time war can be declared and I doubt she could so easily turn against us. I didn’t hint any sign of ill-manner in the letters I received from her in the past years, did you, Lord Tyrion?”

The Hand shook his head. 

Arya stood up, finally confident and readily prepared. 

“This matter will be dealt with in a moon, but I need to leave tomorrow. The sooner I deal with this, the easier it will be,” she explained, and Tyrion nodded his agreement.

“Do I need to arrange transport to Braavos…”

“Arya has her ship, it seems that three years aboard her own vessel has taught her a fortunate number of skills,” Bran interrupted, and she settled in her stance.

“Tomorrow then,” Tyrion announced, returning his gaze to hers and she took a big breath.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed. 


	7. vii - She Means to Leave Me Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gendry is left alone in the viper's nest and all hells break loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agh im sorry for being so late with my updates but i've had so. much. work. 
> 
> hopefully this chapter makes up for my absence, and i think you guys will like this one. it's getting hawt in here 
> 
> thank you all for your wonderful support, comments and kudos. it's such a joy to read your thoughts about this work 
> 
> hope to see you soon!

__

_-King's Landing-_

(She Means to Leave Me Too)

Gendry nursed a tankard of ale, watching men bicker around him in the small tavern off the remaining part of Flea Bottom.

He had come here often before Davos had whisked him up North with Jon Snow, it always helped to feel the anonymity once in a while, especially now that he was stared upon on a daily basis. Unfortunately for him, Bronn of the Blackwater had seemed to have the same idea that late-night and he sauntered up, plonking down on the table in front of him.

“You fucking her then?” he had asked him

He looked around the rowdy room in false indifference. He knew the man was talking about Arya but didn’t bother to confirm nor deny his suspicions. He’d let the man think as he wanted.

“You should hear what they sing about Lady Stark,” the mercenary continued, trying obviously hard to rile him up, “The way you fuck her so hard she howls like a wolf bitch in heat, or how your dear Papa must be leaping up in joy in the Heavens.”

“You think that’s where he went?” he asked, slightly amused at the hypothesis.

“The man enjoyed women and good booze, there’s nothin’ wrong with that,”

The itch to stand up and cave his head in was overpowering, especially as he sat with his feet up on the table like a smug bastard. Yet Gendry remained composed and returned his gaze.

“I’m sure the bards are still as creative as they were when I last heard them,”

Bronn started to whistle a hearty melody of what was probably the bawdy tune of his and Arya’s supposed promiscuous behaviour. He didn’t care for things such as songs, the commonfolk had always used different mediums to address nobles and their activities. Not that Gendry joined in when he wasn’t a Great Lord, but he didn’t bother to seem offended. As long as he didn’t have to hear the lyrics.

“You know… I thought she was the impassive Arya Stark that killed the fuckin Night King but at our lovely little dinner, I only saw a little maid,”

He was forced to resist a burst of laughter that erupted from his chest.

_A maid? This man is more foolish than I could have possibly determined. Dare I say I took care of that years ago?_

“Is there a reason you’re sitting here in the middle of the night, drinking away?” Gendry asked, bringing his own tankard to his lips.

“Looks like I’m going back to the bloody Reach,” he said, wiping his chin with the grace of a young boy, “They’ve said they need me grovelling the bloody smallfolk into order, so we don’t starve to death before this winter is over.”

“You’ve got a wife, don’t you?” he asked him and the sellsword just snorted.

“About as pretty as a washboard that one, _Lady Stokeworth_. That golden hair cunt promised me a better castle and a better wife, and looks like I only got half the bargain,” the man snorted again, “And that other Lannister twat, and our _lovely_ king. They’ve bloody dismissed me off the Small Council, bunch of cunts.”

Gendry just raised his eyebrows and took another sip from his tankard.

“Y’know I like you, even though you piss me off with all your honour crap,” the man moved forward across the table, clasping his hands together, “Doesn’t explain why you’re here though.”

“Used to be a smith on the Street of Steel,” he replied with a shrug of the shoulders, “This is one of the only places that didn’t burn with the rest of Flea Bottom and I’m pretty bloody sick of drinking watered wine up with those fancy fucks.”

“They’ve got good ale here, always have” the sellsword agreed.

_Maybe if he wasn’t such a cunt, mayhaps we could be friends in another life._

“If you’re not fucking her, you should consider it,” he continued, the edges of his top lip curling upwards, “I’ve never seen a lass with smallclothes more soaking for…”

“You done?” Gendry asked him, anger budding in his veins.

“Your call bastard, but she’s gone to Braavos hasn’t she? Maybe you missed your chance,”

_No, I’ll revoke that previous statement. He’s a cunt._

“Aye, cleaning up your mess,”

The man snorted and buried his nose in his tankard.

“Let’s play a game you and I,” Bronn said, suddenly sitting up with his chin raised, “The Lord Hand taught me this one, I say something about your life; if it’s true, you drink, if it’s false I drink. I’ll go first, you’re a little maiden.”

Gendry only raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Drink,”

“Fuck,” the sellsword swore and raised the tankard to his lips.

“You’ve made the eight,” Gendry guessed, he had heard the terminology before and thought the man would be well-travelled.

“Drink,” Bronn grinned and he defeatedly took a swig, “Never been to the Iron Islands.”

They went back and forth until his head was light with drink.

“You’ve already fucked her, you sly bastard!” the Bronn slapped the table drunkenly.

Gendry chuckled sheepishly and took a sip, his senses dwindling.

“Let me tell you something _bastard,”_ and the word immediately sobered him up, “Princess Stark might want your cock, but she doesn’t want you. She’s got swords to play with, and a generation worth of songs of her bravery. She wants you to warm her bed, and then she’ll leave on her little boat when she feels like explorin’ the world. You don’t marry women like her, you fuck em’ once every how long they decide to come back into your life. Get yourself a Dornish lass, they’ll keep you on your toes the way Arya Stark isn’t able to manage and they’re beauties, they prefer their light cloths don’t you know? I happen to know a fair Dornish maid who would drive you wild…”

“Enough!” Gendry hit the table with his fist, sending his tankard jumping into the air.

He felt his eyes darken with challenge as he stared down the sellsword, still lounging nonchalantly in his chair. 

“I won’t marry,” he managed to fumble through the effects their joint drunken stupor, “Not because of Arya Stark, not because of anything. I just won’t marry. I don’t know what game you’re playing Bronn but I will find out, I promise you, I will. Swear to all Seven of those fuckers up there that you won’t know what hit you.”

“Like a real Baratheon, all balls and no brain,” Bronn smirked and stood up, “I’ll see you soon enough.”

He staggered through the door and disappeared into the night, leaving Gendry with his nerves on fire and a head that couldn’t comprehend the world around him.

* * *

He was surprised how fast Arya’s ship, _Visenya,_ took to be docked in Blackwater Bay, the Stark sails simmering proudly in the midday wind.

It was a sturdy vessel, he could see it clearly, and there was no doubt that if it carried her across the world it would take her easily across the Narrow Sea. But he couldn’t help but feel his heart constrict when he saw Arya’s face light up, excitement and youth in the crevices of her war-torn skin that he never remembered eliciting. He attempted to manifest some kind of happiness out of her own, but he failed miserably and resorted to walking glumly beside her as she nearly skipped with joy.

The utterly selfish desire for her to stay stationary by his side mortified him to the core.

She was not perfect, that was for sure, but he loved the way her teeth appeared a little crooked and there was a splatter of freckles on her nose when he leaned in close enough. They existed as intricate details that he saw before he went to sleep, they hid on the insides of his eyelids and in the whistle of a midday breeze. He saw her in the puddle of ale of his tankard, he had always seen her eyes in the storming clouds of his Southern kingdom. But something nagged at him, dug itself deep like a flea.

_Does she see the world in colours and shapes because of someone?_

He imagined Jon was that someone for her, someone who managed to differentiate the blacks from the whites. He was clearly the person she loved the dearest and trusted with her whole person. But no one had heard of Jon since he left three years ago, and he was no nearer to them right here on the docks. It wasn’t fair of him to allow his mind to shroud with the weight of the green-eyed monster, but he almost encouraged to wind through his bones and latch so tightly around his heart it became an iron fortress. He became the boy who trudged behind Ned Dayne and Arya Stark as they talked with the familiarity that noble people always did; poles up their arses and heads full of clouds. It might have startled him to realise that nothing had changed since he was a green boy but nevertheless, he glowered like he used to; angry, simmering with rage but maintaining a tight-lipped expression on the outside.

_She’s leaving._

All the sudden, the wound smarted and the walls he had built so articulately over lonesome years had once again failed to protect the weakness of his foolish heart. The one, and the only one, that he gave so willingly to Arya Stark. And when he saw his reflection in the glass pools of her eyes, he knew she carried his heart like it was made of porcelain; cupped in both hands and held to her chest. A myriad of emotions tormented his mind; the uncertainty of her departure and the reassurance that she was coming back, in one piece with not a hair on her head scathed. She was not going to Braavos for herself, he could see the hesitation in her eyes even as they longed for her ship, but he knew it would hurt like all Seven Hells combined to see her climb the gangplank. It twisted and burned at his sinew, at every capillary. It felt like lightning twitching through his limbs.

“She’s beautiful,” he commented instead, and she turned her wide grin on him.

“Sailing the open waters is wonderful Gendry, I wish you could come with me,”

Her words almost caused his heart to stop. When she reached for his hand to intertwine their fingers discreetly, he nearly pulled away.

“You look like shit,” she noticed as one would comment on the weather.

“Drank a lot last night,” he confessed, running a hand through his growing hair.

“Why?” she asked insistently. 

“It’s hard,” he answered. 

He raised his forearm to shield his eyes from the intensity of the morning sun.

“What’s hard?” she probed, in an unusually sweet tone.

Surprisingly, there weren’t that many people milling about the docks, just a few men and women whom he expected were her crew, loading cargo onto her ship.

“Hard watching your _mate_ sail off into the horizon, y’know?” he teased, and she smiled, albeit sadly.

She stopped abruptly, pulling his arm to look at her.

“I don’t truly want to go,” she admitted and bit her lip.

“I know,” he told her, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “Duty calls.”

She furrowed her brows.

“Fuck duty, if my brother weren’t the king, we wouldn’t be in such a horrible state,” she grumbled and tried to reach for his other hand, “We could do what we want.”

He stepped out of her grasp and chuckled lightly at her frown.

“I have my celibate reputation to uphold your highness, we can’t all be so scandalous,”

She rolled her eyes and moved to kick his shin.

“I’ll show you scandalous!”

He twisted around and grabbed her by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder as she squealed in protest.

“Well it wasn’t me who wanted their first time to be in an outside hallway in the middle of fuckin’ winter,” he reminded, and she smirked.

“I don’t know about you but I was plenty warm,”

He groaned and shook his head in disbelief, unable to keep at bay, the chuckles their banter always seemed to rise from within the lonely cavity of his chest.

He eventually put her down and smiled down at her mussed hair. She smiled back at him.

“Come on board Gendry,” she asked, and he shook his head.

“You have a safe trip my princess, good luck on your endeavours,”

She rolled her eyes and stepped into his space, wrapping her arms around his neck. He had given up his resolve almost immediately and he covered her waist, moving to rest his forehead against hers. Something in him snapped, seriousness and the weight of their shared love settling into the space between them.

“Don’t get killed,” he told her, “No funny shit, come back.”

“I’ll always come back to you Gendry,” she told him, eyes blinking like a doe’s, “No long roads anymore.”

He felt his heartstrings pull.

“I love you Arya,” he told her, and her eyes widened, “I know I haven’t said the words but we’re partners now, I’m allowed to want you safe even when you’re the one doing the guarding with the sword business.”

He saw a sliver of Arry pass through her face, not a tentative look at all, it radiated awe and trust like they were to each other whilst starving in the Riverlands.

“You keep safe too, you hear me?” she told him, and he nodded obediently.

He drew her in and wrapped her close to his chest, his head in the crook of her neck. She smelt of jasmine and leathers, and like herself.

“Anything for m’lady,”

And with tears in her eyes, that he saw but didn’t dare to comment upon, she pushed him and kissed him senseless in the only way Arya Stark could say goodbye.

* * *

Amongst this apparent ‘Lord’s Council’, he managed to put two and two together relatively quickly.

With the Prince of Dorne and Bronn the Cunt absent, he almost cursed himself from being so daft. Of course, Arya wouldn’t have told him either and he had a sneaking suspicion that she thought he would find out by himself. He was almost sure of it; Arya and he had always had a silent method of communication.

Gendry didn’t particularly like anyone in this Lords Council, they all seemed pompous and unfamiliar, where very few had actually bothered to help in the wars. Truly, having Brandon Stark as the king did not make any logical sense. An ideal king, in his own opinion, would be caring about the smallfolk, willing to bend down in the muck of Flea Bottom and listen, making changes of what was actually needed. King Bran lacked the light in his eyes that Gendry learnt to understand was empathy. He saw it in his own looking glass after a day of work in the fields with the common people or helping to fix a roof in a village. It was the look someone who was animate about his own kingdom gave, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Bran was aware of its absence. He would take to observing it in his own bannermen; Lord Buckler, for example, had a spark that could light the entire Night Lands, but Lord Penrose’s was dimmer than Gendry’s mood at this particular moment.

He wondered to himself if he ever told Arya about his opinion of Bran’s rule, if she would be defensive or if she would agree. Something in him almost laughed at the thought; here he was only four months after having Arya as a consistent figure in his life and he had already reverted back to considering her thoughts as a way to validate his own. It wasn’t a bad thing, he thought, he trusted her judgement more than he liked proving her wrong. Maybe that was something partners did.

“Thank you all for attending on such short notice my lords and lady,” Tyrion broke Gendry’s train of thought as the half-man stood up to pace, “The Crown is thankful…”

“Oh cut the bullshit!” Yara yelled, slamming her fist on the table, “You’d think that the Realm has been in enough wars not to listen to the same shit over and over again.”

He did not remember seeing the Ironborn woman anywhere near the so-called wars. He could have laughed so hard he would have fallen on the floor, but the intention was quelled by the thought of Arya definitely kicking his shin under the table if she was here and saw even a twitch on his face. He needed to learn to be as schooled as her.

Around the table sat Yara Greyjoy, Edmure Tully, Robin Arryn, Lord Royce and someone from the Westerlands whom he didn’t recognise. Bran was seated at the far end, Brienne of Tarth standing with her hands on the pommel of her sword behind him and Podrick Payne was by the door.

“Maybe you’ve inferred from the absence of some particular members, that this meeting is dire,” Bran called out in his stupendously calm voice, “Arya Stark has informed us that she caught Lord Bronn conspiring with the Dornish.”

“And where is her royal highness _Princess_ Arya?” Yara sneered, causing Gendry’s jaw to clench, “She seems awfully good at disappearing when it suits her.”

There seemed to be no love lost between the two since the first Council meeting three years ago.

“In Braavos, sorting out the financial crisis of the Crown,” Bran answered for her, indifferent to the plain insult of his sister, “She will be back sooner than she proposed.”

For a second, Gendry’s heart soared but he sobered when Yara Greyjoy just rolled her eyes.

“ _Our_ little hero,” the woman sneered, “What’s the Dornish and Bronn got to do with this?”

“The decrease in the coffers from the Reach?” Robyn Arryn offered, one eyebrow rising unimpressed.

“Dorne seems to be belligerent, and we have eyes that tell us that Bronn’s discontent with the current monarchy is worth waging a war for,” Tyrion explained and the Lords and Ladies muttered under the breaths, “Lord Baratheon received a threatening letter after declining a marriage proposal between an unknown distant child relative of the Martells. The letter indicated the use of espionage and a threat to the Realm.”

“You’re insinuating that the Reach and Dorne could form an alliance? To dismantle the throne?”

Once the meeting concluded, Gendry took to his chambers to find a pen and some parchment to send a raven to the Stormlands.

_Davos,_

_Remember when you told me about the siege when you were with Stannis?_

_You might need to prepare your onions._

* * *

The feast was a boisterous affair, to say the least, he was forced to knock away the prying hands of too many servant girls.

As much as he was glad, he was not the only representative of the Stormlands as Lord Buckler had arrived a week after he had, he did not appreciate where he was seated; in the middle of Arya’s cousin and her uncle. Luckily for him, Lord Buckler was a fine drinking companion and was quite the amusing man when in his cups that he managed to lift his foul mood ever so slightly.

“I was told my niece Arya arrived in Storm’s End only a few moons ago,” Edmure Tully said and Gendry turned his head uninterestedly to the Lord of Riverrun, “I didn’t know the two of you were acquainted.”

“We’re friends,” he answered, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips, “Been friends since we were children.”

“May I remind you that the rumours floating around the Realm are quite distressing for an uncle’s set of ears,” the man tried to jest and he only lifted an eyebrow in return, “Arya may not appear so but she is a Princess Lord Gendry and her honour…”

“Lord Edmure as much as I appreciate you lookin’ out for your niece and all, if she heard all that shit, she’d have a knife in your gut,” he told the man bluntly watching his face fall with shock

“You seem a lot more than friends,” piped a voice to his left.

Lord Robin Arryn in his sky-blue lordly robes almost made him want to laugh. Mayhaps he was too used to how the Stormlanders dressed, in their leather-strapped armour, untidy beards and iron pauldrons. The Knights of the Vales dressed like flowers in comparison and it seemed even Lord Royce whilst he gorged on a turkey leg was delicate in his armour.

_At least they did fight for the North. I need to be less of a grumpy bastard if I desire allies._

“I can trust that you’re Arya’s family and you deserve the truth,” he sighed distraughtly, “Arya and I were… Are…”

“Lovers?” Robin finished, close to rolling his eyes it seemed.

“More than that,” Gendry defended darkly, “We’re partners, we don’t need to be married for that to happen. I love Arya, but I am in no position of being her protector, I’m not the charming lord here to save her from her predicaments.”

“We’re very well aware that Arya operates that way,” Edmure flushed embarrassingly, “But what of the Realm?”

Gendry couldn’t help but let the incredulous laugh bubble from his throat.

“Arya and I care very little about what the Realm thinks, and we have much to talk about before it comes to the point our relationship is as public as it might be in the songs,”

“You’re really not like Robert, are you?” Arya’s uncle watched with a small smile on his face.

“Never met him, wouldn’t know. I hate bein’ compared to him as much as Arya hates being called the reincarnation of her aunt,”

“At least you know that the red string of your destiny is far apart from history,” the man said, oddly wisely, “I have my Roslin and wouldn’t think of anyone else, so I do understand.”

“Roslin is your wife?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“Yes, she’s as pretty as a rose that one and I wish I could have brought her but she’s with child again,” the man smiled sheepishly, and Gendry felt his heart softened a little bit. What he wouldn’t give for a father to smile so openly about the prospect of his child. He’d sometimes indulged in fantasy that involved a dark-haired babe nestled in the arms of one particular grey-eyed woman, but he never let it go any further, “The Starks have wolf packs and that is why both house Tully and Stark were so compatible; we both understand the value of family. When you find the woman you love Gendry, you would never leave her. My child and she are the reason why I wake up, the last thing I see when I go to sleep. It gives my life purpose.”

“You already have a child?”

“Yes, my little boy, he’ll reach eight name days on the turn of this year,” the man gushed, turning red.

“You must be proud,” Gendry commented.

“I think the key to being a good father is patience,” the Lord of Riverrun told him, “Children are facets of us, we make countless mistakes yet we reprimand ourselves brutally. A child doesn’t have that ability to know what’s wrong and what’s right. That’s what I want to teach my boy, that he doesn’t need to live his life in fear or emotionally serving anyone. I want him to know spring."

“I hope he has that life,” he sighed, “I hope he doesn't have to live like the rest of us.”

“You and Arya… Had your childhood stripped from under your feet, didn’t you?” Gendry could only nod grimly, “You were with her when her…”

“We met after Ned Stark… A man from the Night’s Watch hid her, tried to take her back to Winterfell,” he quickly answered, “I met Ned Stark too, he came to the smithy I worked at.”

“What did you think of him?” Edmure asked, turning around to check on Robin who was chatting up a pretty young noble girl.

“I liked him,” Gendry admitted, for he did. Ned Stark was the first noble that he had ever met where the kindness of his curiosity wasn’t laced with some kind of manipulation, “I could tell he cared, _really_ cared. I see little bits of him in Arya sometimes He didn’t deserve that at all, he wasn’t a traitor. He was trying to save us.”

“Catelyn wrote to me after her birth saying how much Ned had fallen in love with Arya and I don’t think it was just because she looked so much like Lyanna Stark, she has the wolfsblood my sister said. She’s purely Northern that girl,”

“She’s stubborn like no end,” he groaned, and the man laughed, bringing his wine to his lips, “But so am I.”

“Catelyn was stubborn as a mule too, right till the end,” he said nostalgically, “I’m sure that’s where it came from. Northerners are hard people, but no one is more stubborn than a Tully, maybe except a Baratheon.”

The bards began to sing louder, and dances were proceeding through the hall.

“Any maiden catch your eye?” Edmure asked, and it seemed to him like a test.

“Unless your niece has magically appeared,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Have you asked for her hand? If she loves you as much as I can see you love her…”

Gendry’s grim face was enough of an answer and the man sighed, “I made the mistake of asking once, I won’t be doing it again.”

“Have you ever thought about a family one day?” he asked sincerely.

“Of course, every lowborn bastard orphan does,” Gendry admitted and closed his eyes to swallow the lump in his throat, “Arya is my family, and if she doesn’t want any more than that, then that is what I accept.”

“You’re a good man Gendry, putting my niece’s needs before your own. But that doesn’t mean you can’t communicate with her…”

Edmure took another hesitant sip from his wine and made a pained face.

“What’s wrong?” Gendry questioned worriedly. 

“Is it just me or does your wine taste of… Salt?” he asked him abruptly and it was strange that the sensation of his tongue was much like drinking a goblet of seawater, “Robin!”

The boy from the Eyrie had slumped from his chair, his face splotched with purple veins. Gendry lifted his own cup and sniffed suspiciously, not smelling of the usual fermented aroma.

He stood, chair knocking back behind him.

“Don’t drink the wine!” he yelled to Lord Buckler who looked up wide-eyed.

_The wine is fuckin’ poisoned._

He looked back to Edmure who had also fallen to the floor, his goblet lolling uselessly on the floor. He shifted his gaze wearily to Bran who was sitting unaffected, nothing more than a blank expression as Tyrion panicked beside him. 

_He knew, of course, he did. What kind of king…_

He felt his legs give way, suddenly weakened and heard the screams of women and calls of men as someone moved over him. Lights flickered above, twinkling little stars like the ones he saw from the balcony of his room at Storm’s End.

_I should show Arya one night, she’d love it._

And suddenly he saw Arya, on her mare, smiling back at him with love in her eyes amongst the wildflowers of the Stormlands.

_If this is the end, it’s a lovely end._

Soon the noises faded into a blur and the last thing he could remember was how cold the tiles were of the Great Hall.


	8. viii - Against all Tides and Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arya negotiates with the iron bank and returns to nurse gendry's health. they share a first in three years, reminiscent of their time in winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is! chapter 8
> 
> i was going to add more detail and plot to this but that can wait for the next instalment. things are getting spicy next time round, so here's some fluff and my weak attempt at smut
> 
> a new OC in our midst! i had fun with this, and i will be creating some new things for arya's time away in essos. 
> 
> thank you for the support with this fic, it really means a lot! 
> 
> thank you to bogman who gave me the support to finish this up although i was procrastinating ten-fold.
> 
> hope you enjoy this one

__

_-The Iron Bank of Braavos-_

(Against All Tides and Currents) 

“Arya Stark,” 

She rose from her stone seat and followed a young page inside a small chamber when three men sat; their spines as rigid as hers and their faces sour. 

“You are the representative from the Crown of Westeros it seems?” the man in the middle said. 

“Yes,” 

“Welcome to Braavos your highness,” he bowed his head in what Arya could tell was subtle mockery, “I am Tycho Nestoris.” 

She sat down herself, without being gestured to, and took in the sight of the rich, plump Braavosi men in front of her. Tycho Nestoris had seemed to know exactly who she was, and it frightened her that she had only heard of him in passing. 

“It’s been brought to my attention that King Brandon Stark has called you to us,” Tycho shuffled some papers in front of him, “Of these matters, I am not sure which of them you wish to discuss with the Iron Bank.” 

“The Crown has a considerable debt with the Iron Bank, I’m here to discuss paying it back,” she stated plainly.

“Cersei Lannister did manage to pay off all outstanding debts of the Crown before her defeat regarding the expenses of King Robert’s reign, but the destruction of King’s Landing has incurred nearly twice its weight…”

“ _Which is why I come here baring an offer,”_ she responded in perfect Braavosi, the syllables flying off her lips with ease.

The men in front of her jolted with surprise and she schooled her emotions to suppress a small smirk of pride. Scaring men of the Iron Bank seemed a harder feat than most but that was most likely the reason why Bran had sent her here.

“We speak the Common Tongue well enough here…” Tycho managed to stutter, “And an offer? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more precise.” 

“There’ll be another war in Westeros soon enough,” she told them, “It seems that the men have no love of peace and there is a chance of civil war.” 

Tycho muttered something in Braavosi under his breath and the men beside him got up and left the room, closing the door silently afterwards. 

“A war, you say?” he asked, leaning forward. 

There was something in his piggish face that unsettled Arya, an entourage of memories from Braavos had settled into her consciousness as soon as she had arrived but this man reminded her of those in the brothels she had stayed at, men that trickled coins out of their fingers as easily as water.

“It won’t be as much as a skirmish,” she announced, unsurely confident at her own words but she managed to project the claim with enough conviction it seemed to make the man’s eyes glitter, “Lord Bronn of Highgarden is unhappy with the current monarchy and he had formed an alliance with Dorne.” 

“How many armed men does each one of these kingdoms have?” Tycho asked, dipping his quill in ink and starting to write on a fresh sheet of parchment. 

_A girl must be quick._

“Barely 10 000 fully trained, 15 000 in training would be a generous statistic. Dorne has been without solid rule ever since Ellaria Sand was taken away for the concern of Daenerys’ conquest. They have had no time to mobilise any organised army in the time since then,” she said, _a lie,_ for she did not know about the military happenings of the kingdom but it was good enough of a lie to spark interest, “The Reach itself is no longer the sole producer of grain in Westeros, the Stormlands have flourished in the previous years…” 

“Yes, my dear, I do keep up to date with the economic provisions of Westeros myself. Lord Baratheon’s revitalisation of the Stormlands has not missed my ears. But do tell me more of this war, what is the evidence to prove they have only 15 000 troops…”

“Lord Bronn is an illiterate sellsword with no training in diplomacy. King Brandon Stark is a greenseer who sees all and calls upon the happenings of the past to predict the future. Any plan that the Dornish and Lord Bronn will attempt to operate will be thwarted,” she stood up and watched the man stare up at her carefully, “You also must consider that the Crown has notable allies; the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands and connection to the North…”

“Your confidence in the Stormlands confuses me, your highness, where does Lord Baratheon’s allegiance lie with a Stark king? Wasn’t his lordship was given to him by the Dragon Queen?”

_His loyalties lie with me._

“Lord Baratheon rejected a marriage proposal to a distant relative of the Martell family, we are unsure of who that would be…”

“Allow me to be frank Princess Arya, I have heard the rumours. By rejecting a marriage proposal because Lord Baratheon is enamoured by you, Dorne has felt considerably slighted?”

Arya straightened her spine and refused the urge to draw her catspaw. 

“Lord Baratheon rejected this offer whilst I was in Essos, my relation to him is of no concern to the Iron Bank,” 

Tycho eyed her. He seemed impressed but not certainly convinced. 

“Dorne desires sovereignty, in which they have not formally discussed with the Crown,” she explained calmly, “My offer is simple, support the Crown and watch them crush the opposers. In the justification of the massacre that took place, allow the Crown to pay the debt back on a payment plan. Reparations and other funds will be sufficient enough to pay you back.” 

Tycho leaned back, his eyes scanning hers. 

“They say you killed the Night King in the songs,” he stated, and she nodded, “I have little faith in rebellions your highness and I have thought about it. The Iron Bank accepts your offer and will support the Crown when needed.” 

“ _The Iron Bank will have its due,_ ” she told him, and he stared up at her curiously, “Valar moghulis.” 

“Valar dohaeris,” he said back and she stood up, leaving the room. 

* * *

She dreamt that night, bounding through the trees with the metal tang of blood coating her canines. 

_The path was familiar, a canopy of trees concealing the dwindling sun and the crackle of leaves under the pads of her paws. She doesn’t bother to run, for her home is close enough and the trickle of meat in her snout is warm enough._

_The cave held her mate, black as a storm, only present by the two gleaming brown eyes that shine in the darkness. Curled around him for warmth are their pups; five little squirming balls of fur, yearning for their mother’s milk. She deposited the meat at her mate’s paws, and he sniffs it before devouring his share._

_She goes to lick her pups, settling down on her side to let them milk and they clamber over each other to greedily have their fill. Her mate pushes the little runt with his snout, so the little white thing has a teat to suckle and it squeals as it finally latches on. It reminds her of her white-furred brother, but this little one is not red-eyed like Ghost is. She and her mate would keep him just as strong like his brothers and sisters._

_Her mate rubs his snout against the side of her head, growling his affection silently through his teeth. He’s a strong one, she would not have let any other mount her otherwise. Nymeria is far bigger than him, but he would protect their pups with his life._

She woke up, her cheeks hot and her body lathered in sweat. She hadn’t had a wolf dream for close to a year and the faint metallic aftertaste on her tongue is oddly nostalgic. 

_Wolves do mate for life_. 

She put a hand on her lower stomach and her thoughts went straight to Gendry. 

* * *

“There’s been a raven from Westeros,” her first mate sidled up to her. 

Sallaquo of the Basilisk Isles was a sturdy man but level-headed. He fought with twin axes that he kept at his waist at all times and he was a handsome man, red earthed skin and eyes more emerald than the waters of the Jade Sea. He had made a good companion during their years at sea; their banter had carried like a did sail through the wind. It hadn't gone further than friendship and she could think of nothing but Gendry who on their first, second and third time had sent sparks from her heart to the tips of her toes every moment they had been together. _Love,_ she thought, _he loved me, that is why it felt so good,_ and she hadn’t denied her feelings towards her bull ever since. 

Sal took the rejection well, and he remained as one of her closest friends. His knowledge of the seas and Essosi geography was to her benefit many times. They had fought back to back countless times, bargained and bartered through the streets of many cities and saw countless of weird and wonderful things that he had helped note down in a series of journals that she eventually planned to donate to the Citadel. 

_“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” he had asked her when they lay fully clothed on her bed._

_He spoke the Common Tongue better than most people did in Westeros and it always calmed her to hear his soothing voice._

_She often wailed in her sleep, and he had come to comfort her. Never touching, just allowing her to talk. She didn’t tell him everything, just the good things like Jon and her father. This was new, she hadn’t said Gendry’s name to anyone ever since she left Westeros._

_“I left him behind,” she admitted._

_“Tell me about him, he must be a great man to have stolen your heart,”_

_She snorted._

_“It’s why I love him, he would never steal my heart. I gladly gave it to him. His name is Gendry, and he always been there for me; my dearest friend whom I trust with my life,” she sighed and felt Sal’s body relax next to hers, “He was an armourer’s apprentice in King’s Landing when I first met him and now he’s a bloody Great Lord of Westeros.”_

_“You were lovers?”_

_She hadn’t properly categorised what she and Gendry were during the few months they were together more than a couple of friends._

_“Something like that, I gave my maidenhead to him,” she explained, and he gave her a quizzical look, “He was the first man I slept with and he was gentle and tender… So different to his character, I use to call him a stupid stubborn bull.”_

_“What happened, did he pass?”_

_“No… He’s alive,” she felt her heart constrict, he hadn’t come to see her on the docks the day she departed. She hadn’t expected him to for she never told him but something in her had hoped he would have heard a rumour and come to see her for the last time. Something in her almost wanted him to come with her, “He was the son of a dead king, Robert Baratheon, and Daenerys Stormborn legitimised him, made him the Lord of the Stormlands and Storm’s End. It’s a kingdom in the South. After he was legitimised, he went to me and he asked me to be his wife, to be the lady of his keep. He called me beautiful and… No man has ever looked at me the way he did, I will remember that face until the day I die.”_

_“You love him… But you didn’t say yes,”_

_She turned her gaze to the light slithering through the pothole._

_“I’m not a lady, I’m not and I never have been. I was taken away from that life when I was a child. Now I want to travel and live without expectation…”_

_“Maybe he wanted that too,” Sallaquo told her, “Maybe you should have asked him to come.”_

_She shook her head despite the internal protest, “No, I need to find me first,”_

_“Will you see him again?”_

_“I hope so,”_

“Tyrion?” she asked, and he made a face. 

“Is he the dwarf?” he confirmed, and she nodded her head, “Well I’m not sure, it wasn’t signed off by anyone.” 

He handed her the scroll and waited as she unfurled it, reading the words that made her heart sink. 

_Gendry was poisoned._

The rest was irrelevant. 

“Sal, get the ship ready; we need to get back to Westeros,” she ordered, and he made a grim face. 

“What happened?” 

“What I feared would happen,” she simply replied and watched him nod and yell at the crew to make arrangements for their departure. 

* * *

_-The Red Keep-_

Luckily on their departure, the winds were favourable, and the ship flew through the choppy waves of the Narrow Sea with the remains of the Red Keep in view. 

She and Sallaquo had managed to get back in eleven days, a feat that most would categorise as foolish as the Narrow Sea had been known for its treacherous waters. She hadn’t cared an inkling, even as she rushed through the Red Keep to the chambers, she knows he occupied. 

Gendry was lying on the bed alone, his eyes still shut. Sam was hovering over him, feeding him broth with a spoon. She entered the room tentatively and Salloquo stayed at the door, his eyes dark. 

“Let me do it please,” she told the Grand Maester and the man jumped with fright. 

Sam moved immediately and she came to sit by Gendry’s side, brushing his growing hair out of his face with her thumb. She took the bowl and fed him a spoonful of broth, waiting to clean his lips before giving him another. She noticed how his head and neck were supported vertically to avoid him choking. She set the bowl down and watched his face twitch. She would find the person who did this, and she would hurt them. For hurting her _mate,_ her best friend in the entire world. 

“Why’d you have to be so stupid and drink poison wine?” she asked him tenderly. 

The question was rhetoric, of course, she did not suspect he would magically wake from the sound of her voice, but Gendry shifted ever so slightly. 

“M’sorry m’lady,” she heard him grumble, a small smirk taking over his lips. 

Her heart seized and soon his eyes slowly opened, taking her in by his side on the bed. 

“Which one of the Heavens are we in?” he questioned sheepishly, peering around with the curiosity of a child. 

“This is your idea of one of the Heavens?” she asked him incredulously and he managed a weak chuckle. 

“You’re here, aren’t you?” 

She rolled her eyes to hide the flush in her cheeks. 

“What happened?” she asked, and he blinked his eyes groggily. 

“Dunno was talkin’ to your uncle and then your cousin fell… And then it all went black,” he tried to explain, scrunching his brow up as he attempted to articulate his faded memory, “Are the others alright?” 

Arya knew she probably should have shown some concern for her other family members, but Gendry was the pinnacle member of her pack and if anything had ever happened to him. 

“They’re on their road to recovery,” Sam confirmed

“Did anyone perish from the poison?” she asked the maester and he nodded his head sadly. 

“A squire of a knight that accompanied Lord Edmure was the only casualty thank the Gods, but we were most scared for Lord Baratheon here. He managed to hit his head quite hard,”

She looked at her bull 

“Do you remember anyone suspicious?” she asked, and Gendry shook his head. 

“You’re back though,” he commented, reaching a hand weakly to cup her face, “Bran said you would be back sooner than a moon,” 

“What did I tell you?” she laughed and watched him smile at him. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” he told her tenderly, “I don’t like being without you.” 

She moved forward and rested her forehead against his.

“Don’t kiss me,” he told her, his brows furrowing, “I could still have traces of the poison.”

She kissed his cheek instead, and then his forehead, feeling his cheeks raise in a fond smile.

She looked back to Salloquo who watched them interestedly. Sal had his lover; a man from Yi-Ti named Peng Liu, who was also an esteemed member of her crew. She knew his darkened eyes were not indicative of jealousy, but she saw they lacked trust. 

“Gendry are you awake enough to meet someone?” she whispered suddenly, and he nodded lightly albeit confused. 

She motioned Sal forward and he took a few tentative steps towards the bed. Gendry saw the man and struggled to seat himself upright, barely managing. Sam started to fuss but he shook the man off.

“So you are the Gendry our captain is so fond of,” Sal observed and her bull’s eyes flicker up. 

“This is my first mate, Salloquo,” she introduced carefully, watching the men stare at each other in challenge. 

_Stupid idiots,_ she thought as Gendry’s mouth remained shut. 

She swayed on her feet for a few moments until…

“Thank you for being there for her,” he finally said, and her friend started with surprise, “She has a tendency for running head-first into trouble.” 

Sal let out a booming laugh, his eyes crinkling. 

“She’s stubborn as the moon, that she is,” he admitted and Arya could see his blackened tattoos underneath his moleskin jerkin, “Made us fly across the Narrow Sea to reach you.” 

Gendry’s eyes landed on hers, one of his eyebrows raising.

“Is that so?” 

She rolled her eyes. 

_Like you wouldn’t, you stupid bull._

“She tells me you are a smith,” Sal asked excitedly. She had told him many times that he was allowed to ask Gendry such questions when they finally met as her first mate had always been enamoured by fine weaponry whilst travelling. She always had talked highly of Gendry’s work and he had been fascinated from start to finish. 

“I was,” he coughed, and she went to him, rubbing his back gently and fetching the broth, “Being a lord is detrimental to my trade.”

“I’d imagine,” her friend replied.

“Those axes are magnificent; did you have them made?” her bull pointed to Salloquo’s weapons at his belt. 

Arya fed him some more broth while the two men conversed. 

“They were my father’s,” Sal replied, unsheathing them both at once to pass to Gendry, “He said if I was to kill, I must have Heaven and Hell in each hand. I don’t go so far to believe in any God, I simply just do better with two blades.” 

“It’s wise of you to think so,”

Arya looked up and watched them stare at each other again. 

“And what is your weapon, Lord Baratheon?” 

“I’m no lord to friends,” Gendry said with a straight face, “War hammer.”

Salaquo took one look at him and Arya and raised an eyebrow.

“A woman who once purposely drove me into a storm and a man who is the lord of the land of storms,” he commented, “It’s fitting.”

Arya couldn’t help but smile. 

* * *

Arya swung around the outside of Gendry’s chambers, hopping onto his balcony and undoing the lock of the door with the tip of her catspaw. 

It was the first night she was allowed to go see him or _engage in intimate affections_ according to Sam’s attempt at a discrete warning of the lasting of the poison in his system if they were to kiss. Arya had half the mind to let the man know she was immune to most of them, but she didn’t want to try her luck. Being away from Gendry for so long had been torturous in ways she could not comprehend, and she had confided in Salloquo one night who had just laughed at her frustration, ducking out of their conversation drunkenly with his lover in his arms. 

Gendry was barely phased by her alternate entrance, much too engrossed in the litter of parchments on his desk as he ran a hand through his hair.

“The door not workin?” he asked with a smirk.

He was writing rather frantically, dipping his quill in what seemed like too much ink but as she leaned over his shoulder, the words on the page could be easily more distinguishable than Arya’s pen craft.

“I took the suggestion of hiding from vipers but if you’re confident in loving me so open…” she teased him, kissing his temple as he continued to scribble, “It’s impressive, three years is not a long time to learn how to read and write. My sister would adore your handwriting.” 

Gendry simply snorted. 

“That’d be under the assumption I was previously fully illiterate,” he looked up at her then and gauged her reaction, “I worked for Tobho Mott love, I sold armour to a bunch of fancy folks who had pretty fuckin’ specific designs. Most of them didn’t give me fancy little drawings, y’know. I knew my basic arithmetic too, had to calculate the costs. Tobho was a busy man.” 

She felt her mouth drop slightly but all in all, she wasn’t too surprised. People often overlooked Gendry’s intelligence and the diligence gained from his trade. Although he might not have gained a lord’s education in his youth, his basic knowledge had kept him alive. 

“All I had to learn was those fancy words you lot use in court, and how to speak proper,”

“Properly,” she corrected, and he snorted again.

“When you’re with me, you’re getting the Flea Bottom bastard m’lady,” he announced, and she chuckled, “And nothing more.” 

He turned to give her a chaste kiss on the lips before returning to his work. 

“As you wish m’lord,” she teased back and watched him smile as he continued to write, “Are you nearly done, or do I have to forcefully extract you from the terrors of your lordship?”

“This is the last one and then I’m all yours,” he told her without meeting her eyes, but the answer was satisfactory enough for her and she moved to toe her boots off, setting them beside his. 

It was oddly domestic; her sneaking into her room to steal kisses and place her boots next to his while she waited on the canopy bed for him to stop writing his letters. She watched as Gendry dotted his last I and crossed the last t, leaning back in his chair and letting out a loud guttural yawn. 

“Beautiful,” she commented sarcastically, and he turned back to look at her with a wide smirk. 

He was unfairly attractive, in his dishevelled tunic and mussed hair. She wanted nothing more than strip him with her teeth and pull him into the sea of furs that littered the bed. 

“Coming to bed, or just enjoying the view?” she cocked an eyebrow at him as he continued to stare. 

He turned his chair around to face her as she sat on the bed. 

“You’re one to talk,” he bravely countered, matching her brow with one of his own, “Am I not allowed to think how lovely you look in my bed.” 

_All I know is that you’re beautiful and I love you and none of this will be worth it if you’re not with me._

It warmed her heart when he complimented her, and she had an inkling he had not a clue of his words’ impact. Her fingers travelled to her jerkin and she started to unbutton it slowly. He didn’t move, only continued to stare at her as the blue in his irises gave way to two large black pupils. 

She popped a button after another. 

“Lovely huh?” she whispered, unbuttoning the last one until the jerkin came apart. 

She pushed it off her shoulders, moving her fingers to the next obstruction. Gendry was not talking; his eyes were simply glued to hers. Her fingers went to the ties of her tunic and she pulled gently, feeling it become loose around her neck. She slid off the bed and took her tunic off too, leaving her bare. Although it was humid, the chill in his room sent goosebumps prickling down her torso and she saw him subconsciously lick his lips. 

“Pray tell Gendry, do you like your women lovely?” she teased, taking a step forward, “Lots of women are lovely.” 

Her fingers went to the ties of her breeches and his eyes followed her ministrations. 

“Aye, but those women aren’t you,” he replied huskily, “They couldn’t compare to how lovely you look right now.” 

She stood directly in front of him and watched his face staring up at her with awe. Her thumbs disappeared into the waistband of her breeches, but she stopped and made eye contact with him. 

The look he gave her back revealed more than words could have. 

He stood up suddenly, cupping her face and slamming his lips against hers. He kissed her more passionately than anything she had ever known, his tongue stroking fire against hers. Although there was a blaze surrounding them, their movements were languid, and he took his time claiming her mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

He circled her waist with his arms and pushed against her, walking back towards the mattress until the backs of her legs hit the furs. She fell backwards but gripped his collar to bring him down with her, his strength enveloping her immediately. He hovered over her, leaning on his arm in order not to crush her as he moved them up the bed. He worshipped her neck, nipped her earlobe and down to her neck before peppering butterfly kisses to the underside of the jaw. She shuddered at his newfound confidence in his affections and she found herself admiring how familiar he seemed as he reacquainted himself with her body. They made quick work of his doublet in between kisses, throwing it someplace in his room and practically ripping off his tunic. He stood up and looked down at her, his lips raw and swollen. Before she knew his intentions, he hooked two fingers in the waistband of her breeches and slid them down her legs along with her small clothes. 

He looked down at her in awe, his fingers tracing the deltas of her scars before returning down to kiss her.

“It’s always been you,” he muttered against the side of her face, “Gods, you’ve ruined everyone else for me, Arya. All I can ever see is you.”

Her heart flooded with warmth at his words and he started to travel his kisses down her neck and to her chest. He took his time; tongue tracing along the planes of her skin, ravaged by scars and the intensity of exposure of nature whilst they had been children. Freckles littered certain parts of her body and there were more little nicks and silver lines she did not know about. 

Gendry revered them all and travelled further south until he reached a place that made her sing like steel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any feedback and comments would be greatly appreciated! i'm on tumblr @ thelandofnothing


	9. ix- And She Bleeds with Intention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arya and gendry revel in the warmth of their established relationship. the crown makes a political move and so do their enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long update time. i have been swamped with work that has completely drained me completely. big thank you to bogman and yanak324 for the continued support, i love you guys! 
> 
> hope you guys like this chapter, shit hits the fan in this one. 
> 
> until next time

_-The Red Keep-_

(And She Bleeds with Intention)

Although Gendry detested staying in the city any longer, Tyrion had convinced both of them to wait a week more.

In the day, he and Arya would visit the decimated parts of King’s Landing and help rebuild as much as they could. He would take to the forge to smith nails, bolts and other utensils the smallfolk could use. She would help carry bundles of laundry or scrub floors of dirty inns that were overrun with refugees. He even managed to see the remains of Flea Bottom; still no more than mountains of ash and decimated houses even after three years. Some of the Street of Steel had been saved, and Tobho Mott’s shop still stood. But the man himself had disappeared.

When night fell, he and Arya were usually too tired to regard to the properties of lords and ladies that had kept them apart before. He simply would sling an arm over her shoulders as they would subconsciously travel on the same path to his chambers. There he would ravish her in all her glory, not her in a stitch of clothing.

That balmy night, as she lay on his bare chest, he finally allowed himself to think about the future as he ran his palm up and down her waist to the curve of her rump. There was no need for a fire in the hearth, nor any furs. They simply were tangled into a sweaty disarray of limbs and a single white sheet, marred with the scents of lovemaking. He wondered if they could ever have that moment, engrained in reality for every night for the rest of their lives, in a home that was far away from lords and responsibilities, in a modest bed, but they called their own. Maybe a garden in full bloom outside the front and of course… His most treasured fantasy of late; a raven-haired child nestled in their arms who grew up to be just like their mother.

“I can hear you thinking bull,” she said, the vibration of her voice was warm against his skin. “What’s on your mind.”

Arya was most tender after they made love; her face would soften, and her movements were languid. There seemed no need for her hand to constantly waver over the hilt of Needle or for the stone impasse to harden her features. She melted into him, not worried about being small, vulnerable or his. She had even confessed she loved the feeling of his arms around her and he had felt a rush of pride at her words. He had always strived to look after her, and she was finally letting him in to do so. The proximity to her heart was a path unventured and he wished he could stay that way for the rest of their days.

“Us,” he responded truthfully, “That’s what is on my mind.”

“Us?” she questioned but there was nothing malicious about her tone, only quietly curious.

“Yes, us,” he confirmed and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “The future and all that, maybe we should talk.”

“It depends on what about your future you wish to talk to me about,” she said, the tips of her fingers drawing imaginary patterns on the hair of his chest, “Is it about the things we’re both bad at?”

“What? Communication?” he asked, and he wondered if nights like these were any different to those of married couples.

He remembered Arya telling him of how her parents loved each other deeply, honestly and completely unconditionally. He wanted that stability with her, the consolidation of a relationship that would last a lifetime even so if it did not end in marriage. He and Arya were bad at a lot of things; accepting the peace were one of those, and as she had insinuated, he didn’t doubt that letting each other know their true intentions were truly a weakness.

“Yes, communication,” she laughed, and Gods was it a beautiful sound.

“Well communicate then m’lady,” he teased, and she pinched his skin, “Ouch! I didn’t mean to communicate through unnecessary means of violence. Isn’t that what we’re trying to fix?”

“Stupid bullhead,” she muttered oddly affectionately under her breath.

He rolled his body over so that her back was to his front. She covered his forearms are her own and sighed against his chest, her head tucked under his chin.

“Are you worried about the future? Is that what this is about?” she asked him, and he was glad for the position of their bodies for he did not have to meet her eye.

“Not worried about it per se, just… Curious,” he told her, and she stiffened under his hold, “I’d like to be with you Arya, for the rest of my life and it scares me that… You might have plans yourself, that might be different from mine…”

“Tell me what you want, and then we’ll know what is different,” she cut him off.

“Arya…”

“Don’t Arya me, just tell me, love,” she beckoned, and he became perplexed by the use of her term of endearment that almost sounded foreign on her tongue, “I would never judge you.”

“The truth?” he confirmed.

“When have I not wanted the truth?” she asked.

Many times, Arya, especially when it looked you directly in the face.

He took a deep breath in to calm his riveting heart.

“I’d like to see the world one day; except I’m not going to even fuckin’ think about rowing…”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“Rowing?”

“Yes, rowing,”

Her brows furrowed more, and he let out a chuckle.

“When I was in Dragonstone as Stannis’ prisoner, when the Red Woman was going to burn me… Davos saved my life and put me on a boat,” he explained, brushing her loose hair over her left shoulder, “I couldn’t swim, I barely had enough food and water to last me a week but I rowed until I felt like my arms were going to fall off.”

“You rowed from Dragonstone to King’s Landing?” she asked incredulously.

“I rowed to a small village near Rosby and then travelled to King’s Landing by foot,” he corrected.

“Oh,” she eventually managed to say, “You never told me that.”

“It never came up,” he countered. 

“What else do you want?”

He went silent and thought about it; all the things he had yearned for as a boy and the new things he wanted as a man.

“A routine perhaps…” he admits, “One day, a proper family… I’m not going to lie, Arya, I would like to be a father; I feel as though I was born into this shit world for one thing and it was to not be my father. So I’d like that… Give someone a better life.”

She turned around in his arms to face him and he was startled by the intensity of her irises.

“You always wanted a family, didn’t you?” she whispered, bringing her hand up to cup his face, “You just wanted to belong.”

He closed his eyes and felt her caress his face; her thumb dusting over his brows, his eyelids, his lips and even the curve of his cheekbone. He had never felt more vulnerable in his entire life.

“I want you,” he told her through a sliver of breath, “I only want you and if you don’t…”

“I’ve learnt something Gendry, over the years when I was away,” she cut him off and he watched her, “I learnt that my reluctance to being a lady was different... I met many women on my travels, all kinds of married women who worked as hard as their husbands, women with paramours, women who loved women… And they weren’t… They weren’t inhibited like they are in Westeros. A lot of them were free and they were themselves…”

“Do you want that?” he asked her, keeping his voice soft enough not to break her out the trance of her vulnerability, “Do you trust me enough to want that with me?”

“I cannot have that whilst playing the game of thrones Gendry,” she told him and his heart sank, “I truly don’t want to run a keep, and there is nothing I can do about that…”

“You’ve always wanted to help people,” he told her, thinking of the times in the Riverlands where her heart had been bigger than any lust for vengeance. He thought of Weasel, and Lommy… He thought of the time she had shared her rabbit with him and more recently, she thought of the time when she nursed him back to health with no qualms about being less ferocious as the Bringer of Dawn, “And you always have; always cared about people like they were your own.”

“I have,” she agreed, her tone was agreeing but not convinced.

“You don’t want to be the Lady of Storm’s End, do you?” he asked genuinely, understanding her.

“Do you like being a Lord?” she countered, and he gave her a look that dissuaded her suspicions.

“There is something quite appealing about reforming a system that has put the commonfolk at a disadvantage for generations. I like my people, and I daresay they support me enough to stage a coup… I just… I want to make a difference Arya and I can do that from my fancy keep. I don’t like the things that come with it, I don’t like the nobles or the feasts or the fancy clothing people ask me to wear. But in that position of power… I can make the rules, I truly can, and we don’t have to be anywhere near the game of thrones for that to happen.”

She gave a smile and ran her fingers through his dark beard.

“Gendry, you would never reduce me into someone else, I’m not stupid. I needed time to realise that me being with you would do nothing to who I am, but you have always loved me; I don’t have to someone else with you…”

He brushed away a loose tear that slipped from her eyes and moved forward to nuzzle his nose against hers.

“I just want my pack,” she said, ever so quietly that she looked like a child, “I don’t want to be alone anymore, I can’t keep this face up anymore.”

“You don’t ever have to wear a face with me, you know that Arya,” he told her, and she smiled.

“I do, I do know that,” she insisted, “I just can’t be a lady like that.”

“Of course Arya, I know,” he told her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and took a deep breath. He slipped his palms around her bare waist and held onto her like she was a ghost, prone to disappearing in plain sight.

“I could stay like this for a thousand years,” he told her, staring at the canopy of the featherbed, “With no one to interrupt us, no wars to fight, no fuckheads trying to kill us.”

Arya turned and moved on top of his body, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.

“I’d wish we’d stay here for a million years,” she said with a grin and he smiled at her, pushing back a lock of her hair behind her ear tenderly, “With no one to interrupt us? That sounds quite lovely.”

“We wouldn’t have that if you stayed in Storm’s End with me,” he said absentmindedly, “We’d be constantly serving others, we’d be too tired at night to fuck...”

“I’d have to be one hundred and two, old and grey to be too tired to fuck,” she teased with a devilish smirk and he pinched her arse until she squealed.

“You want me to stay,” she stated and rolled off him.

“I want to be where you are,” he simply answered, letting her curl back into his arms, “You could do what you want, you don’t have to be the lady of my keep.”

“You could come with me?” she suggested, and he felt his heart clench, “It could be like the old times, I could show you places you’ve never seen. We’ll be outlaws…”

“Arya…” he quelled and ran a hand over his face, “I am the lord of the Stormlands, the people haven’t had a solid rule for decades…”

“I understand, of course, I understand,” she said, with a surprisingly tender smile on her lips, “You’re like my father, he was always honourable, he always cared about his people more than anything.”

He sighed at their predicament; he had always envisioned a life that wasn’t as difficult as the decisions they would have to make but there was simply nothing he could do.

“I care about you more than anything or anyone in this world and you know that m’lady. I want you to stay, but you’re a wolf, my wolf and I know that you need the room to run when you wish to,” he told her and she looked up at him, curious and youthful like Arry had been, “I suspect no one’s going to be able to stop you anyway, well, you being a pirate and all Capn’ Stark.”

She laughed and he smiled at her face.

“Home is not a castle,” she suddenly said, her eyes locked on something behind him, “I know I told you that Winterfell wasn’t my home but it is; it’s where my family lives and where their ghosts will lay until a new dawn arises.”

“Then you should go North,” he commented thoughtfully, and he watched her furrow her brows, “Convince your brother to come South and fight, convince your sister to help us if we need.”

Her eyes lit up, the same way they did when she had seen her ship.

“You think so?” she asked, oddly and uncharacteristically timidly, “I don’t want to be apart for too long.”

“We won’t be,” he told her confidently, “Whatever happens in the Stormlands with the Dornish I need you to stay away… You’ll be needed where the fighting is the thickest.”

“I am needed with the man I love,” she snorted and ran her palm up and down his chest, “Wars be damned, all I want is to drag you to the middle of the sea and be left alone.”

He smirked and squeezed her hip.

“We’ve got plenty of time for that,” he reminded her, and she mirrored the mischief on his face with her own, “And if I recall properly, we have not yet blessed the captain’s quarters of your ship.”

She let out a toothy grin as she climbed astride him; his cock started to involuntarily throb in anticipation.

“You’re right and there also happens to be a bed in your rather large keep m’lord, that desperately needs to be broken in.”

Gendry barely had time to let a bark of laughter out before Arya started to kiss his neck, hoisting his arms over his head.

* * *

Gendry was more than grateful to be able to move freely on his own.

Arya had unfortunately dealt with his irritability every day since she had arrived caused by the effects of the poison. The lack of sleep had driven him mad alongside the terrible aches in his limbs that inhibited his ability to carry anything of considerable weight or walk around at his usual brisk pace. Sam had insisted that a few more days of bed rest would see the end of the side effects and Gendry had never been a patient man. But as stubborn as he was, it seemed as though Arya’s stubbornness wore through and she had confined him to his chambers; forcing him to eat and take the herbs to wash the poison out of his system.

She told him that she had seen a variation of the poison before in the House of Black and White, and assumed by its similarities that a very small dose could have been fatal. It was so rare that it didn’t have a name, and all she remembered of it was its origin; its poison only found in the stamen of a particular weed that grew on the Eastern Coast of Dorne and must have migrated with Princess Nymeria when she and the Rhoynar had fled from the Valyrians. Arya had quickly put two and two together and so had he. When she had told Gendry, he had been more than furious. He felt his blood boil like a simmering storm of the lands he ruled. A true Baratheon, Arya had mused after quelling his rage by kissing him softly and massaging his scalp gently with her fingers. He had hated the resemblance and immediately hindered his fury.

As they sat at yet another council meeting, Gendry’s hand sat firmly around her thigh as they listened to Tyrion explain the turn of events whilst Yara slammed the table with her fist.

“You expect us to sit here and let them poison your guests, your Grace, we need to take them to war,”

Gendry gave Arya a knowing look which responded to with a roll of her eyes.

“The attempt on our lives is an instigation of war, your Grace,” Edmure stated through coughs he hid behind the back of his hand. He had not recovered as well as Gendry, but it was Robyn who was absent from the meeting. Instead, Lord Royce sat as his representative, proud in his armour and white hair, “Forgive me, but I agree with Lady Greyjoy. You must not, on any circumstance let Dorne and Lord Bronn get away with anything else. You nearly lost three high lords.”

He felt Arya’s fingers squeeze his.

“Who poisoned us, your Grace?” he asked suddenly, “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

He could feel Arya’s eyes on him at once as soon as his words had adopted the subtle accusatory tone. He had not told her about how Bran looked when the presence of the poison was suddenly announced.

“I do my lord, but I will say so in confidence,” the king responded, and he felt Arya’s nails dig into the fabric of his breeches, “You will know soon enough.”

Gendry stared at the peculiar man, not truly sure of his stance with the King of the Six Kingdoms but he was sure that his accusation did not please most of the nobles surrounding him, his own lover most of all.

“Thank your Grace, I was only concerned,”

“And you have every right to be concerned Lord Baratheon,” the boy responded, a coy smile on his lips.

The sight was more than disturbing but Gendry pursed his lips and managed a respectful bow of his head.

“The reason as to why his Grace has called you all here is to form an alliance,” Tyrion announced, fiddling with a chain at his belt, “The events of a feast the Crown held in good nature were compromised and…”

“The lives of my closest allies were threatened. I do believe in saying that this far from any coincidence,” Bran interrupted, eliciting a shocked expression on his Hand’s face, “The Dornish have yet to display a reflection of loyalty to the Crown they are sovereign to since my own coronation.”

“Three years ago?” he heard Arya whisper in his ear, and he nodded.

“We have evidence to prove that Lord Bronn of Highgarden is intending to conspire against the throne, and it is clear that a pact of sorts has been formulated between the two leaders,” Tyrion explained and some of the nobles expressed shocked faces including Yara, “There is no doubt there has been Dornish involvement within our midst.”

“Are we to strike your Grace?” Yara asked in a trepid tone, “The Iron Islands…”

“I ask you all to pledge your banners to the threat of potential war,” Bran announced abruptly, “I ask you to understand that if one our kingdoms is at all threatened by militaristic intent, then we shall all march against such dissidence,”

“Those who consent to the order of the Crown say ‘Aye’,” Tyrion asked, and the nobles looked hesitantly around the room.

“Aye,” Edmure agreed, standing up with a hand on the pommel of his sword.

_I must forge him a new one, to show my thankfulness_ , he thought as Yara Greyjoy stood up.

“Sovereignty is one thing but marching against our hard-earned peace is another. I say aye,”

Gendry resisted a snort and felt Arya’s fingers curl against his.

Lord Royce then stood.

“In the name of Lord Arryn who was mauled by the rebels, I do say aye,”

He felt his legs rise on their own accord as Arya’s eyes followed him.

“Aye,”

* * *

“You stupid bull,” Arya hissed, slipping out of the shadows, “Why did you say that to Bran?”

He jumped three feet into the air.

“Gods Arya! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you loud and clear m’lady,” he scoffed, “Are you not going to wait for an explanation. Do you truly believe that I would accuse your brother of something so dire when I haven’t told you the reason?”

“Were you going to?” her rage quelled only slightly, and he nodded his head, cupping her face experimentally.

“Of course, Arya,” he sighed and tried to coax a smile out his storming woman, “I would never be rude to your family.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Our family,” she corrected, “Bran referred to you as a family member if you didn’t notice…”

“I noticed,” he said dismissively, “I did, I just…When I felt the poison’s effects… He was there, he knew what had happened and he knew who poisoned us. I could tell,” he told her, and her face screwed up, “Why would he let us perish like that?”

“Because he cannot meddle with time,” she told him, deep in thought, “And he knew you wouldn’t die, he wouldn’t have let me go to Braavos otherwise. He cannot tell the future, but he can indicate what will happen, the past is a pattern and he can predict by using the algorithms of what has already happened.”

“Do you believe me now?” he asked incredulously, his voice rising an octave higher, and she gave him a look.

“I believed you before you started yammering,” she told him.

He rolled his eyes and watched the nobles congregate as the dinner plates were cleared away. When he returned his gaze to Arya, her face was set in a puzzled expression as she bit her lip.

He tugged the offending flesh from her teeth with his thumb and smiled down at her.

“What’s on your mind?”

“You need to go home,” she told him sternly, a worried and distant look on her face, “You are not safe here.”

“And you are?” he scoffed and only sighed when he saw her face, “Alright, alright… I understand but what of it, Arya? What’s the difference? Back home I’m geographically closer to Dorne.”

“Don’t be an arse! Who do you think poisoned you and the others Gendry?” she asked, her voice suddenly went cold, “You and I both know they’ll attempt something but at least you’ll be in your home, protected by your bannermen.”

“Oh please Arya, I’ve been a lord long enough to know that the Dornish have been spying on me since I walked into the Stormlands. They don’t like me, and the feeling is pretty bloody mutual. My bannermen, on the other hand, hate the Dornish more than they can hate me, so it works in my favour.”

“Doesn’t mean you can act so nonchalant about these things Gendry; your life is in danger,”

“Arya,” he said, but she only pushed him away, “Love…”

“You’re not getting hurt, not on my account,” she insisted, and he chuckled.

“I know,” 

“They’ll attempt a siege,” she told him.

“I know,”

“Do you have enough provisions for a siege?”

He smirked.

“It hasn’t been very peaceful for me in the times of peace m’lady, these last three years have been spent in preparation for a Dornish attack, I consulted my bannermen the first time the Prince of Dorne corresponded with me and they agreed to contribute some of their coffers as siege provisions.”

He had been studious in first years of ruling Storm’s End. Maester Jurne had assumed from his bastard and lowborn status that his literacy would have been lacking but after years under Tobho Mott and the time in his forge in King’s Landing before Daenerys’ landing, he had been adequate in calculating simple sums and the knowledge of basic words. It didn’t take long to realise there were words that Lords used that were not simple in any regard but after lessons in history, geography, grammar, and lordly etiquette, he had found through his motivation and willingness that the tutelage was paying off. He started talking properly with other esteemed lords, regardless of how shocked they seemed to look but whenever they got on his nerves. He wasn’t frightened to show the Flea Bottom in him and felt as though Arya knew that, fuelled it even, as she was the woman who loved him in the mud and chains of Harrenhal, in the grime of the longest night they had ever lived.

“Ever heard of Durran Godsgrief?” he asked her, a playful grin on his lips.

“I was a lord’s daughter Gendry, of course, I was taught…”

“He built his keep seven times in the face of the Sea Gods’ wrath just to be with the woman he loved,” he cut her off, reaching for her hand, “You need to understand that the Prince of Dorne can try whatever the fuck he wants, but he will have to get through the stubbornness in my blood first,” he announced confidently, and he felt the thrill of fury circuit through his nerves, “Storm’s End will hold.”

He suspected that if they ever had children, they would be the most stubborn creatures in the Realm and the thought should have chilled him to bone but it only made his fury stronger.

“I don’t doubt you, bull,” she said, her voice filled with an affection that he had longed for. 

But although his heart soared, he felt a twinge of pain. She never insinuated she wanted to return with him back to Storm’s End, and he had an odd feeling that she wouldn’t. He brushed the uncertainty aside, but like a bad omen, it shrouded his thoughts.

They walked back to their chambers, in which Arya had not moved from since arriving back in Westeros. He wrapped an arm around her waist as they walked their domestic journey, retiring earlier than they would separately as the day had left them both exhausted. Once inside, Arya slipped out of her leathers and donned a loose tunic that was most likely his. He did the same, unbuckling his jerkin as she slid under the covers. It was colder that night and a servant had placed a fur on their bed. He wriggled out his undertunic and his formal breeches, tugging on a loose long-sleeved shirt that rested at his thighs. 

“Why does the prospect of being separated hurt more than it did before,” he suddenly asked her and watched her sitting upright against the headboard, a book in her lap.

Arya smiled and watched him settle into bed next to her, taking her into his arms as she continued reading. Her head was firmly underneath his chin as she leaned against his chest. She kissed the underside of his jaw as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“It kills me too, the thought of being separated in the midst of war,”

He listened to her light breathing, and the occasional turn of the page of her book and tried to envision that they were someplace else; Storm’s End perhaps, in his large Baratheon oak bed. He yearned for the crashing of the waves against the cliffs down below, missed the unobstructed sunsets and dawns. The selfish part of him knew she belonged there too.

Suddenly Arya bolted upright, her hackles raised, and eyes set on the window of the balcony

“What’s wrong,” he asked her, but she was nonresponsive, “Arya, what’s…”

“Someone’s in this room…” she whispered, her eyes glinting like two silver daggers.

She reached her hand underneath her pillow and pulled out a dagger. They both stilled and he cocked his ears to hear an indication of an intruder, but he caught nothing of the sort. Arya slipped off the bed, her feet silent as she tread along the stone floor; distributing her weight like a cat with the dagger poised in between the tips of her fingers of her left hand.

Quicker than he could fathom, a shadow flickered out from the curtain and a man with a cruel-looking blade emerged; his face concealed with a long black veil. Before the man could move, Arya had already moved and headbutted the intruder, sending him hurtling back against the room’s table where he scampered for a moment before Arya had hit the sod in the nose with the pommel of her dagger eliciting a loud and anguished cry from the man. The crack of cartilage rang around the room like a bell, and the intruder fell to the ground holding his most likely broken nose. Before he could recover, and before Gendry could cave the man’s skull in, Arya grabbed the back of his collar and brought the dagger to his uncovered throat, tipping her face upwards into an unreadable gaze.

“Who are you?” she hissed, her eyes flashing steel. Gendry grabbed his hammer and held it up threateningly.

The man spat at the ground in front of Gendry and his grip tightened on his weapon.

“She asked you a question, you fuck,” he growled, and the intruder struggled against Arya’s hold.

“Valar moghulis,” the man simply said, and Gendry stared at Arya’s face as she quickly slit his throat in one smooth motion, letting him slump to the ground ungracefully.

He looked back up at her, her face spotted with crimson dots and he saw none of the Faceless assassin or the warrior. He saw a woman scared for her life, her hands and lips quivering like they were beyond the Wall. Her eyes flickered up and met his, irises simmering with molten steel and fear.

“Valar dohaeris,” she whispered, looking distantly past his shoulder.

The dagger clattered to the ground.


	10. x - A Farewell for A Splintered Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the poison clad intruder is identified. gendry makes a decision. impending separation leads to desperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to yanak324 and fineosaur for you ever-lasting support. 
> 
> hope you enjoy this one dudes, i really put my soul into this one
> 
> i actually wrote a smut scene??? (so warning if that’s not your thing)

_**-King's Landing-** _

(A Farewell for a Splintered Heart)

As Bran was wheeled through the door of Gendry’s chambers, she thought she must have made a sorry sight for eyes.

She could not see it herself, but she could feel the prickles of bloody spots that speckled her tunic and the flesh of her face. Her hand as well was stained a dark, rusty red; congealed blood already starting to dry. She could tell every set of eyes in the vicinity were on hers, especially that of Gendry when he gazed at her with something, she couldn’t quite fathom. Her heart started to grip with fear, and it was the realisation that she had finally managed to show him who she was.

_He thinks I’m a monster,_ she worried and unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself.

But her worry dissipated when something soft encompassed her body and she looked up to see Gendry placing his cloak around her shoulders. He brought her chin up to meet his eyes with his thumb.

“You’re okay? He didn’t hurt you?” he asked, and it was concern not fear that made his blue eyes simmer like the sea.

She shook her head and he smiled, looking back up at their newfound audience who peered more peculiarly at Gendry’s unbashful demonstration of tender affection than at the pool of crimson at her feet.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes searching hers, dancing with concern.

“I promise Gendry,”

“And may I ask what Lady Arya is doing in your chambers my lord?” Lord Royce demanded, pointing a finger at Gendry who didn’t even blink at the accusation.

“Shut up,” she simply said, and the man took a step back.

“This man has threatened their lives Lord Royce, surely their safety is more of a priority to who beds who,” Lord Edmure stated, bemused, “So you were not lying Lord Baratheon, you truly have captured the heart of Ned Stark’s little she-wolf. Robert would be proud.”

“Robert Baratheon can go fuck himself,” Gendry responded, his gentle hand resting on the small of her back was a juxtaposition to the tone of his voice.

“You ought to be ashamed Lord Baratheon,” Lord Royce’s voice called out, “Soiling a noble girl…”

Gendry just laughed and narrowed his eyes.

“Ashamed? You must forget which noble girl you are talking about,” he responded, and she turned into his side and put a hand on his chest. He looked down at her with sweeter eyes than she had ever seen until he turned his fury to the man at their doorstep, “This _fucker_ tried to slaughter us in our sleep, that is what you should put your puny minds…”

“Gendry,” she beckoned, and he stopped abruptly midsentence and looked down at her.

Lord Royce looked as though he were about to explode and strangely her uncle’s face softened.

“So,” Edmure asked, looking down at the body, “Who do we have here?”

Arya bent down and put the pads of her fingers behind the man’s jaw, searching for the point where the face usually…

“He is not what you think he is Arya,” Bran said from the back of the room and she looked up, “It is more a matter of Lord Baratheon’s single weakness.”

She stood, brushing her hands on the cloak while Gendry’s hand returned warmly on her back.

“Is that why he said those words?” he asked her quietly, “To think you were being attacked by…”

She felt her thorax constrict.

“He’s Dornish,” she whispered for she knew the tone of his skin was different to someone of the Reach or even Braavos, “The Prince must have sent him… He’s the one who poisoned you and the others. Bran knew, he bloody knew he was in this very castle hiding in the shadows and did nothing about it.”

She watched as Gendry’s jaw tightened, the vein in his neck starting to protrude.

“If you hadn’t have heard him, we would…”

“He would have tried to kill us, yes,” she replied, looking up to him, “But he didn’t, didn’t even get close.”

_Ours is the fury._

Gendry glared at Bran, then looked back at her.

_Is it reasonable now to say your brother is a cunt?_

_Yes, you stubborn idiot, it’s reasonable._

He gritted his teeth and shook his head, so she put a hand on his arm, looking into his eyes, willing him to control his temper.

“Your Grace, I need to return to the Stormlands,” he announced, sorrow was hidden in his tone, “I’ll leave on the morrow.”

“I understand the concern Lord Baratheon,” Bran said back with a nod of his head, “And Arya… You must go North.”

She looked up at him with furrowed brows as Tyrion passed her a sealed scroll. She broke it hurriedly and remained at Gendry’s side who kept his eyes up to respect her privacy.

_Dearest sister,_

_It’d be good to see you to discuss things further. Come North, come home._

She nudged Gendry who took the scroll from her and read it quickly, pursing his lips.

“I’m going to find Jon, I’m going to bring him here to fight,” she told him, and his brows furrowed.

“He won’t come easily Arya; Bran granted his pardon nearly immediately after you left and there’s been no response for three years. Even Sansa hasn’t been able to establish contact,”

“I am his favourite sister Gendry,” she told him sternly, “He will listen to me or I will drag him by the hair on his head all the way South.”

“Will your sister commit Northern troops, my lady?” Edmure asked her and she turned around.

“Most likely, Bran is in risk of danger and so is her closest trading ally and trading partner,” she looked back at Gendry whose shocked expression made her laugh, “Don’t look at me like that, I might have been travelling but Westerosi economics didn’t escape my ears. I did a lot of trading in my time.”

“I don’t doubt you,” he whispered, almost embarrassed as the others looked at them, “Just surprised, is all.”

“But my sister will still need good reasoning for doing such things, and my brother is another matter entirely,”

“And what is the importance of Jon Snow returning to the capital?” Yara Greyjoy asked and Arya had nearly forgotten how the Iron Islander had defended Daenerys and asked for her brother’s death.

She felt her fists curl.

“He will play an important role in the impending war,” Bran said, and silence encompassed the room, “That is known.”

* * *

On their last night together before separating, Gendry took her down to the bay where he grew up as a child.

A lot of it was still ash, brick, and crumbled mortar but they could make out the silhouettes of naked children jumping in between the rocks and women wringing out clothes.

“I remember all this…” he told her, and she watched his nostalgic expression, “When I was a boy, my mother used to take me to see the ships dock in Blackwater Bay.”

“Your mother sounded wonderful,” she replied and felt his fingers tangle into hers, “She raised a good man.”

He let out a snort and walked further down the start of a small, new wooden-plank jetty.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked, and he looked up, eyebrows raised.

“What? King’s Landing?”

She nodded and he jumped down onto a rock, urging her silently to follow him. She slid down with more grace and found his hand again as they balanced on the rocks.

“No,” he answered honestly, “Most of it is gone now anyway… Where I grew up and Mott… He was good to me, but it was hard.”

“So is being a lord,” she added but he shook his head.

“You know better than most Arya… Us starving in the Riverlands, that was normal for us here. Sometimes we couldn’t get enough food. I can remember the boys I grew up with who died of starvation in the streets. Being a lord is demanding, yes, but I will always have clean clothes, a full belly, and a fire and furs to keep me warm at night.”

She had always thought him smart, albeit very bullheaded at times, but Gendry was an intelligent man. He usually didn’t say things that made him sound intellectual, but she knew that the cogs inside his brain were always turning and he was always observing and taking in his surroundings.

“It teaches you something doesn’t it?” she added, and he grabbed her by the waist to jump down from the rocks onto the sand of the beach. They were further from the busyness of the city and had walked a fair distance whilst basking in their comfortable silence. Little waves against the sandy shore, littered with shells and debris from the sea, “Teaches you that happiness doesn’t come in the form of a castle. We might have been starving in the Riverlands but at least we had each other.”

He smiled at that, bending down to roll his breeches up his shins and she followed suit. He beckoned her to the water, and she linked their hands once again.

“I agree,” he said softly, watching as the sun disappeared along the water’s length, “Yet I think I like these times better because I can do things like this.”

He stepped forward and placed his palms on her cheeks, pressing his lips against hers. She bent down and flicked him with water, and he gasped in faux shock.

“Now you’re asking for it!” he yelled with a grin and she let out a bark of laughter as he began to chase her through the shallow water. She could easily outrun him, but he managed to catch her, throwing her over his shoulders as she laughed as she had never before. Gendry waded deeper into the water and threw her down into the cold embrace of the ocean’s arms. She felt her ears clog with seawater and body feel lighter than air and then it was all over when she emerged at the surface; hair all over the place, spluttering. Gendry was grinning at her, his breeches soaked. But soon the grin turned into a tender smile and she gave one back, running her hands over her hair as she floated in the water.

“You’re a vision like that,” he said, and she closed her eyes.

“Sometimes I don’t know what you see in me,” she answered and swam out of the deeper water until she was able to stand on the sandy floor of the sea.

Gendry just snorted and sat down where the water only danced around his ankles.

“And you call me stupid,”

“Because you are,” she bit back, and he splashed her.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on and nothing will change my mind,” he retorted almost angrily, pulling her to him so she rested in his lap.

“You’re being rather insistent,” she smirked.

“Let me show you 'insistent',” he told her and began to bite her neck.

She sighed and bared her neck; Gendry hands moulded around her soaked form as he devoured her and worshipped her. If she ever doubted his confidence or dominance, she cursed herself as she became completely at his mercy.

“Here?” she managed to ask between devouring kisses and his answer was to only press further against her, “Is this… Wise?”

“Mmm, probably not,” he hesitated, furrowing his brow.

Suddenly his eyes went wide, and he looked at her with a boyish twinkle in his blue irises.

“I want to take you somewhere,” he said.

“Are we continuing or...?”

  
“We are very much continuing,” he assured her with a growl and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder while she yelled in protest.

“Put me down!” she shouted at him, attempting rather pathetically to suppress her giggles.

“Not a chance,” he retorted, and she could hear the shit-eating smirk in his tone.

The stubborn bull knew what she was capable of and yet he did not budge. Instead of fighting, she let him carry her over the sand and up through the streets until he put her down; both still soaking wet from their activities at the beach. He held out his hand to her and she took it, not hesitating even a moment to feel the warmth of his calloused fingers encircle hers. He led her up the streets for what felt like years until they reached a lane that stunk of the pungent aroma of what she commonly associated with Gendry; steel.

“Come on,” he urged her forward and she smiled at him.

They walked for a while longer until Gendry pulled her into a forge that was devoid of any light or sleeping workers.

When they entered, he let go of her hand and searched around in the dark until he found what he was looking for. He tossed what she could tell was a few lumps of coal into the furnace and pumped the bellows until a glow of yellow light filled the space.

“Warm enough?” he asked her, the reflection of the embers flickering in his eyes.

She nodded and closed the door behind her, moving to look around the small shop.

“Was this yours?” she asked, and he nodded from where he was squatted next to the furnace, untying the wet laces of his tunic.

“During those years after I managed to escape from the Red Woman, I came back here. Shaved me head and lived right under their noses,” he explained and she came to the realisation there was still a lot she needed to learn about him, “Yeah I made the Lannisters swords but they were purposely the shittest ones I’d ever made.”

She moved towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I was living without a purpose, but I had my own shop and it… It was enough for me. I’ve had Bran look after it for me while I’ve been in the Stormlands.”

He looked up to her then, his eyes completely black.

“Now, I’ve learnt that I can want more than just a shitty shop on the Street of Steel,” he stood up and stalked slowly towards, crowding her space and cornering her to a neglected workbench, “I can want a woman who saved the whole fuckin’ Realm because she wants me back.”

His mouth found hers with the most tender ease, causing her to shudder out an involuntary whimper. He nipped at her bottom lip for entrance and soon his tongue slid into her mouth. He claimed her with a strength she didn’t understand she craved, desired, _needed,_ and finally, she understood what Nymeria must have felt when she chose her mate. Gendry never feared her, never tread lightly with her. He told her how he felt, he got angry with her; furious even but then it was all a sweet juxtaposition to when he loved her. Gentle, affectionate; he never treated her like a panel of glass even though she very much felt like one at times. She was a piece of steel to him and he was the only one who could harness the strength of the blade that although was beautiful, was able to cut throats as a finger could through melted butter.

“And I can love her without giving a single fuck about what some fat lord has to say about it,” he continued, traveling down from her mouth to the underside of her jaw, to her neck and to just behind her ear. She knew she must have tasted of salt and sweat but if he had any qualms, he surely did not show it.

“And she can love you back,” she told him, shuddering when he sucked the soft skin of her thorax between his teeth, leaving the beginnings of a red bloom, “Without fear. Without lords or ladies or… Oh, fuck…”

He broke away and looked at her, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes glittered with unbridled desire, something so lucid she could barely return the intensity of his regard. Her lids felt heavy as lead as he continued the journey of his lips, travelling further south until they met her collarbone.

“Gendry,” she whispered in a weak attempt to stifle her moans and he lifted his cerulean gaze in a concerned manner but one look at her face had him nodding in an understanding only he could communicate with her. 

And if she thought she was on fire before; she had no preamble for what his hands would do as began to wander. He moved them up and down her sides until they became stationary on her hips, his fingers doing the work to slowly peel her saturated tunic off her flesh like a second skin. In amidst the lust, she could envision the love, the fury and the desire of protectiveness in his gaze and for the first time, she stopped attempting to fight it. She let him love her in the way he stubbornly wanted to; unconditionally with no reprisal. She felt him lift her up onto the bench, her legs automatically curling around his waist as his lips returned to their home at her neck.

There was a desperation in their movements, but that never stopped either one of them from slowing down, enjoying a languid pace. She knew they had until dawn and it seemed as though Gendry fully understood as well. He took his time; sucking, biting little red love bites onto her skin, marking her in a way she never thought she would enjoy. And although it was terrifying, she never felt the littlest bit threatened. Soon his fingers had lifted her tunic over her frame and left her bare; the warmth from the weak fire in the furnace warmed her somewhat but it was Gendry that sent electricity down her spine and gooseflesh in the wake of his touch. When it came off, he stared at her with awe; his tongue subconsciously wetting his lips as his eyes grew abnormally darker. He moved further down; adoring her until she gasped when his mouth found her nipple; suckling the rosy bud in between his teeth. He gave a little nip and moved to the other, mirroring the previous treatment.

He urged her to lay down with the soft plane of his palm and a look that was ten-fold sweeter than anything she could ever imagine. He communicated everything with his eyes it seemed, and she had always been able to speak the telepathic language that they shared; little glances, a twitch of the lip or even the slight movement of their brows. Here his eyes were speaking to her, _I love you, I want you to trust me_ and she hoped that her eyes were telling him the response, _I love you and I trust you more than anything._

He began to fiddle with the ties of her breeches that were stuck together due to the salt of the ocean water. But through his hooded gaze that never left hers, he managed to shrug her free of the offending article of soaked clothing off both legs. She kicked off her boots as they struggled to rid each other of their remaining clothes; silently grateful that they had opted for loose tunics and light breeches. Once she was bare, he dragged his lips to the scars that circled her abdomen.

“What are you doing?” she asked worriedly, and he looked up.

“I love every part of you,” he told her huskily, “Scars and stubbornness included.”

She shuddered as he traced the rivieras of her scars with his lips, nothing about the activity was sexual; he kissed her like she needed to be loved. She had never felt as golden as she did then; completely awakened under the tenderness of his actions. Then, with two fingers, he slid her small clothes off, pushing one of her calves over his shoulders until she was completely bare to him. He licked his lips and trailed a length of butterfly kisses up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh until he breathed over her core.

“Gendry,” she whimpered, every wall she had built over the years had finally dissipated.

He stroked the length of her cunt with his tongue and her head fell back, holding her own body up on her elbows. She had never felt this warm in her life, not even with the times he had done this to her before. He continued his ministrations, looking up at her through his eyelashes as his tongue and an introduction of two fingers worked in tandem to reduce her into a panting, blushing mess. All she saw was electric blue framed by the darkness of his Baratheon hair as he sucked gently on her clitoris and curled the fingers inside her, eliciting a loud, almost guttural moan in response to him. As she came down, Gendry was grinning up at her from his place between legs; his chin and lips soaked with her juices.

“Good?” he asked, cocking a playful eyebrow.

“Shut up,” she told him instead, trying to maintain her composure and breath.

He chuckled and kissed her hip bone before standing up to remove his own breeches. His boots went flying across the room as he picked her up again, his flesh against hers and moved them to a little cot in the back of the shop. Depositing her on the bed, he crawled on top of her, distributing his weight evenly on each elbow that rested by her face. She moved her hips experimentally and he let out a soft hiss, staring down at her in utmost pleasure.

“Are you sure?” he whispered in the space between them

“Of course,” she said, smiling up at his concern.

He positioned his cock at her entrance and pushed into her gently, her arms going to wrap around his neck as his body moulded against hers. 

“Arya, _fuck_ ,” he groaned and moved his face into the crook of his neck as he rocked into her, setting a pace that she matched with the pull of her hips.

Her eyes fluttered closed as he pushed into her; languid but still punishing in a way that she knew would cause the ache in between her legs that their first time had. Gendry was large man in all places, and when she had seen his length for the first time, she had felt a pinch of fear. But knowing how gentle he would eventually be quelled any ambiguity, and it certainly had no place between them then.

He clutched at his shoulders as he drove her further into the mattress, meeting him thrust to thrust. Everything about laying with him felt so fucking _raw,_ as the primal urge deep within her subconscious arose through her sinew. She could feel his hand slink down to where they were joined and rubbed circles with the pads of his fingers on her clit. She sighed in delight at the newfound pressure, murmuring his name to the still air around them. Soon, she could tell he was nearly at his release; the effort of his drive came out in little constricted gasps like he was struggling for breath.

He gave a few half-hearted thrusts until he pulled out of her and spent his seed on her stomach, panting uncontrollably.

“That was embarrassingly short,” he sighed trying to regain his breath, “I didn’t even make you come.”

She scoffed, “You did with your tongue, stupid bull. You think women get off every time on a man’s prick?”

He moved off her in search of what she could tell was a rag to wipe the seed from her belly.

“It’s beside the point Arya, I want to make you feel good,”

“You did though,” she whispered as he knelt by her and brought the cloth over her skin.

He smiled at her and leaned forward to capture her lips in a leisurely kiss.

“I’m glad,” he returned and chucked the cloth somewhere in the dark, crawling into the cot with her and pulling her sweaty body flush against his, “That’s the only duty I have to you as your _mate_.”

She let out a laugh and wrapped herself around him further.

“It’s rather fitting,” she told him, her ear against his chest, listening to his beating heart slow with the setting of their relaxation. 

“What is?” he asked her.

“Well, this is a forge… And you did _hammer_ me,” she grinned impishly, waggling her eyebrows suggestively, “It’s your expertise, isn’t it?”

“Arya,” he groaned, shaking his head while chuckling, “Gods, you’re crass.”

“Told you,” she reminded and pinched his pectoral, “I’m no lady.”

“You are though, a princess in fact,” he teased and gave her arse a little playful squeeze that made her jump, “But your own kind, why do you have to be like those pompous, curtseying pricks? Be yourself, be like you were in my council. You had me cackling for days when you showed Lord Penrose the she-wolf in you.”

She laughed and tucked her head underneath his chin. She was so grateful that he adored the things about her that made other men quake in disbelief. 

“Would you want me to come back with you?” she asked and looked up to him, “When this is all over?”

“Of course,” he sighed and dragged a hand over his face, “But I’m not forcing you into anything. I just… I love you and…”

“I know,” she said, pressing her nose against his collarbone, “If it’s any consolation, I loved being with you in the Stormlands.”

“Even when I wasn’t being pleasant?”

“Even then,”

She sat up and rolled on top of him, her chin resting on his chest. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in response.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his eyes becoming distant, “I should have known people wouldn’t keep the peace but it’s… I’ve had enough of wars.”

“It’s all we’ve ever known,” she breathed, watching his eyes focus on something in the distance, “We deserve more, don’t you think.”

He murmured his agreement, his palm rubbing up and down her spine.

“Sleep now love,” he whispered, and she willed to close her eyes to the soft rhythm of his breathing, “Tomorrow is tomorrow, tonight is now.”

* * *

It was still dark when her eyes opened.

She rose before him, listening to his soft snores that she had oddly become accustomed to. Her heart wrenched at their impending separation, something she had despised more and more as the hours drew nearer. She could quite happily watch the youth in his face as he slept for as long as forever; all the scars and crevices were softened by peace. She couldn’t see the stubborn man she had grown to know, the one who frowned and glared but smiled when she was around.

His eyes flickered open and rested on hers almost sadly.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you,” she whispered, the crux of vulnerability splitting her heart open, “I’ll see you when I come back to you, Storm’s End will hold, won’t it?”

She needed to hear his words of assurance, but she knew he could never give her the answer she desired, not with the uncertainty of war shrouding their bed.

“Arya…”

“Promise me,” she urged, “Please, just promise me.”

She knew fully that he could not, but she was contempt with lies. His eyes softened and he nodded his head.

“When you come back, we will see each other again,” he cloaked her cheek in his massive hand, “That I promise you m’lady.”

She chuckled at the pet name.

“Stupid,”

They dressed quietly, stealing glances until they wore every stitch of clothing left. He grabbed her hand and led her out the shop, walking the deserted streets lit by dawn until they arrived back at the Red Keep, nodding at the guards who recognised Gendry’s face.

He was waiting when they reunited in the courtyard a few hours later.

He wore his leather jerkin with thick iron buckles. His eyes shone against the canvas of his dark beard. She had grown to love it on him, it made him look fierce, strong and more like himself than anything else. She engrained every filament of his being to memory, lest she needed a reminder during nights that were sure to be lonely.

“I cannot write to you,” he whispered to her, “We cannot risk anything.”

“Your banners are called, aren’t they?” she asked him, and he gritted teeth, nodding, “You’ll be fine, your people love you. Your provisions are in place, there’s nothing to fear. Storm’s End is impregnable, Davos said as much, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” he returned, his eyes floating distractedly to the small crowd around them.

He only had Lord Buckler and a few of his men in his party but it still seemed as though their audience was watching them with careful eyes.

“If anything happens… I will come South,” she told him and watched defiance flare up in his eyes.

“Arya… Listen to me; you stay as far away from the Stormlands as you can. Bran needs you here to protect him, you are too valuable of a fighter to…”

“To what? To defend the man I love? Don’t tell me where I can or cannot be,” she snapped, her face contorting with anger, “You are not my husband and even then, I would never allow you to order me around.”

His brows furrowed with an equivalent fury.

“Don’t you understand Arya? They’ll use you! You are my weakness; they will use you against me. You’re not unassailable, you are a person, doesn’t matter which Night King you slew.”

“Do you really have no faith in me?” she nearly shouted.

“I put every ounce of my faith in you my love, please just for once in your life… Listen to me. If anything happens to me you stay here, to protect your brother,” he told her, cupping her face almost forcefully.

“I will tear apart this world with my hands if that Dornish cunt lays even a hand on you,” she whispered violently in the expanse of shared space between their noses, “I am not a forgiving woman.”

“That I know,” he answered with a smile.

He pulled her in for a soul consuming kiss that ripped the wind from her lungs.

“I love you,” he said to her, resting his forehead against hers, “You’re my only family and I need you to keep safe.”

“You too, keep yourself well,” she kissed him again and nuzzled their noses together before he pulled away and mounted his horse.

She put a hand on the pommel of Needle, watching the group of his men organise themselves. Soon they were ready, and she walked up to his black steed, checking the bridle and the girth until reaching to put a comforting hand on his thigh.

“I love you,” she whispered and smiled up at him.

He gripped her hand and gave it a squeeze before letting it go and kicking the mount into a confident walk.

“Gendry!” she called, and he halted his horse, looking back at her with concern, “You send that Dornish fucker my regards.”

His mouth split into a wicked grin.

“As m’lady commands,”


	11. xi - Child of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arya deals with gendry's absence from her side and makes her way up north with her trusty comrade Salloquo of the Basilisk Isles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow since september... yikes sorry
> 
> i hope you guys like this chapter, it's 7000 words to make up for not posting for ages. i've definitely got things planned for this story so stay tuned!
> 
> there are some places that are mentioned from the far east of Essos and these are places that arya has been. i've completely mapped out her entire journey and used quite a few online maps but [this](https://knerdkraft.com/products/essos-national-park) and [this](https://external-preview.redd.it/uhQnjdO2xvtnaQigg27jRf0R-01MD1YWwp1NRTZLhq4.jpg?auto=webp&s=ac7458f237867ba2f4c62bcdd3dd1dc2b8658b17) are probably the best ones.
> 
> a map with arya's route of her travels pre-brutalism will be up soon but keep following the story from now on to hear where she went. her recollections will be chronological. 
> 
> if you have any questions, you can ask me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thelandofnothing) or down below in the comments 
> 
> feedback is greatly appreciated and i hope you guys like this. shit is going down soon

**_-King's Landing > The King's Road-_ **

(Child of Winter)

With Gendry gone, she truly noticed the absence of her shadow as she crept down the halls of the Red Keep.

She continued to stay in his bed and in the tunic that she stole from his small collection of belongings. Although lordship had shaped how Gendry appeared to a court full of nobles, it seemed to do very little to his character that remained simply as humble as had she always knew him. But it was the coldness of the room that he had left behind and the sliver of truth to the secrets that had been following them like a haze that seemed to sink in whenever Arya was left looking at the decorative ceiling. It was foolish, she thought, that being apart from Gendry _Baratheon_ was now a feat so challenging that it was as if the last three years on her travels away from all of what she had known for the majority of her life meant nothing. But abstractly, it had meant nothing in the story of her growth. What had she yearned to find amongst those waves? Landmasses and weird birds? Instead, she and her crew had navigated in a sphere, reaching Asshai before Arya thought she would ever see the mythical and darkened by magic city. Slowly, her journey _away_ from home had turned into a trip in order to get back to it, but nothing could stir the source of her childhood curiosity and fascination of the East like an adventure could.

Now, it seemed, she had landed herself back into the jaws of a political structure eager to fall beneath to whatever tyrants were holding it up; Bronn of the Blackwater and the Prince of Dorne whose name she didn’t bother remembering even if someone _had_ told her.

The sound of flickering lights echoed off the walls, but her ears picked up something else. Arya whipped her head around, turning to look at the darkened corridor that would take her to Gendry’s room. It was a trek she took every night, and much to her vigilance, she now could feel someone who knew her routine almost as well as she did. She saw whom she had been following since a very abrupt council meeting in which Arya was not quite sure why she was seated next to Lord Paramounts after Lord Paramount. Especially when the absence of a particular one made the ache in her heart grow more profusely.

“Yara Greyjoy,” Arya called, stopping the woman in her tracks; her famous axe clinking precariously from her belt.

“Arya Stark,” the Ironborn greeted back, emerging from the shadows.

“What do I owe the pleasure of your presence so late at night?” she asked, and the woman spat at her feet.

“Cut the bullshit wolf bitch,” Yara took a step forward as Arya took one back, arms slinking methodically behind her back as she raised like a cat onto the balls of her feet, “You and your lurking has been pissing me off. Don’t think I appreciate the nepotism of this bloody crown; a Stark here, a Stark in the North… Now you, sinking your claws into the South. What do you want?”

Arya suppressed rolling her eyes, more frustrated that Gendry and her relationship had been turned into a whole debacle for the Realm to witness.

“I would want for us to stop being so hostile,” she offered, and the woman simply laughed humourlessly.

“For what? So I’ll protect your precious stag?” she tapped her ring against the axe against her left thigh and made the steel sing a quaint song, “Do you think I am a fool?”

_He is a bull,_ she thought deep within her consciousness, but she kept her face.

“I’m not the one kissing _King Brandon Stark’s_ arse,” she raised her brows, letting her tone of voice settle, “ _I_ would be the fool if I thought that you pledging your banners meant anything but a plea for Ironborn sovereignty…”

“ _My_ brother died for your family,” Yara spat at her, “Died protecting your family, died protecting _King Brandon Stark_. And you dare… Theon was no coward…”  
  


“Not at the end, no,” Arya looked up as the mouse haired woman glared down at her, towering in her boots and kraken adorned armour, “I grew up with him, he was my brother as much as he was yours…”

“You Starks have poles stuck so far up your arses you don’t know where the stick begins or ends,” the Greyjoy woman unsheathed her axe, “You dare think you can call my brother your own, I don’t know what that Baratheon lad sees in your lying whore…”

Arya ducked and swung her leg around, catching Yara by the back of her knee and sending her hurtling to the ground. She flicked out her catspaw and was perched on the woman’s armoured chest before she could get another word out, the steel sharp against the flesh of her thorax.

“Theon Greyjoy taught me how to nock a bow, how to hit a target before my mother could shove me in a dress and force me to strum a lute in a circle full of indoctrinated idiots. And I still remembered that when he exclaimed for all of Westeros to hear that he roasted my baby brothers and took my home. He betrayed his family that day and I am no forgiving woman, but your brother was my brother even when I shared nothing of the salt in his veins. He was a wolf as much as a kraken, and no amount of your hostility will ever change what is the truth,” she let her catspaw clatter to the ground and she sat up, reaching out a hand, “Bran is no king, no more than I am a princess or a lady for that matter. But we are women, in a pit of…”

“Vipers,” Yara answered for her, unexpectantly grabbing her outstretched hand and pulling herself into a seated position, “And we should not fight like they hope we do.”

The two women stared at each other in mutual and comforting silence.

“Did Theon truly teach you?” the woman laughed incredulously, “That was the only thing he was bloody good at.”

She nodded and the torches crackled in between their momentary silence. Arya sighed and thought of Gendry, that the Great Lords had caught her in his chambers and there was bound to be talk. Even after three years, she could not see herself as the Lady of Storm’s End although she loved him. Three years had not granted her enough time to explore the East, only pockets of the lands further than the Known World _._ She understood how one could misinterpret Gendry and her relationship; as a bid for more Stark control in the South and she had an inkling that Sansa would approve of the match with or without background context as a political manoeuvre.

“I’m not asking you to defend Lord Baratheon, nor anyone for that matter,” she explained and Yara’s eyebrows raised, “Not even to gain my brother’s trust enough to seek sovereignty for the Iron Islands. I’m asking you to defend peace, the peace that your brother gave his life for. As much as you loved your Dragon Queen, she burnt mothers’ children that day, the old and weary who couldn’t run from the flames, she would have burnt you as well if you had been in those streets like I had. I don’t know what carnage you have seen, but it was…”

“It wasn’t her, not the Queen I vowed to follow,” Yara said quietly, her stone façade dropping, “I heard the stories of you, that you went East. You must have heard… Heard of Queen Daenerys’ liberation of those slaves, Astapor, Yunkai… Meereen. Instead, you let your stupid sister plot… What? Judgements and betrayal? When you, yourself knew of her mercy, of her heart?”

Arya furrowed her brows; Sansa had never possessed the complete ability to be genuine, but it was only fair to respect the blood they shared.

“Daenerys was of good heart, I swear to the Drowned God,” Yara hit the armour over her heart with a solid fist, “She meant to save us from Cersei, from Euron…”

“When one tyrant falls, another will replace them,” Arya looked down at her boots, “That is the way of the world of men.”

“Good thing there’s us then,” Yara smirked and Arya let out a soft smile.

She helped the woman onto her feet, and they travelled the corridor to an outside courtyard, the balmy air of the night ruffling their clothes.

“My sister lost the ability to trust the day they cut my father’s head from his shoulders,” she told Yara, “Your Queen had my brother wrapped around her finger ever since he went South. Starks never fare well in the South, that is known.”

“And yet they saw you clinging to the statue of Baelor the Blessed. You heard the blade all the same and yet you’re still here; your sheets warm with someone who is decidedly not blood,”

Arya let out a little smile. She was lucky in that regard; Yoren had shielded from the sight of her father’s head rolling down the steps as her sister’s scream turned to ashes.

“And I met that man the same cursed day, hours after,” she watched Yara’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline, “For what it is worth, I do not think I could trust others after that. Gendry seemed to get lucky.”

Yara let out a chuckle.

“I won’t understand your unbashful devotion to him, I will not even try,” the woman shook her head, “Mayhaps I can tell you of my own ‘travels’ over a tankard. Hopefully by your wishes are hostility disbands, otherwise, I might have to duel you.”

“I only think it’s fair,” Arya smirked.

Yara clapped her hands together, “Well,” she heard the sound of her sliding her axe back at her belt, “Do you know a good pub remaining in this shit city?”

* * *

With her head still pounding from the night before, Arya drew her maps and collected her bare possessions; packing her horse alongside Salloquo who was due to accompany her North back to Winterfell. She was minutes from mounting her white mare when she felt a presence beside her. She turned to see Edmure Tully, her mother’s brother and more closely, her only remaining uncle in his traditional noble Riverland clothes.

“Lord Tully, how can I help you?” she greeted, tucking her hands behind her back.

“Arya there’s no need for such formalities, I am your uncle,” he reminded her of the fact as if she had forgotten mysteriously.

“I am aware,” she nodded, “How can I help you?”

“You’re going North, I heard,” he smiled somewhat awkwardly, “To visit your sister?”

She nodded and brought a hand down her mare’s mane.

“Lord Baratheon talked of you, quite fondly might I add,” he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, “Your father would have approved of such match.”

She rolled her eyes and mindlessly went to check the girth of the saddle.

“It would be best if you stayed out of my personal affairs,” she told him, raising a brow, “We will cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Edmure raised his hands in surrender, “I know Arya, you are as strong-willed and independent as your lady mother. I have no doubt that all will fall into place. But I ask you to please promise me.”

Arya turned to him, her face scrunching up with confusion.

“Promise you what?”

He sighed and raised his head to the sky.

“You have forged a beautiful love with him, that much I can see,” he smiled softly, “Do not take that for granted, I might not be the wisest of the lot and I’m sure you’ve met more philosophical and well-travelled poets on your adventures but… I am saying this as your uncle, your blood. There is no need to stray away from a future with him, your mother excelled as a lady and I see the same characteristics in you.”

Arya huffed out of her nose incredulously.

“So, Sansa told you of my past with him?” she asked and the man meekly nodded, “Well, as I said before. Stay out of my personal affairs, there are wars to fight and I am not a mere piece of a cyvasse game. I hope you remember that.”

Her uncle’s eyebrows raised at her hostile outburst and quickly she was overcome with a sense of formidable guilt. She did not know Edmure as well as she did her immediate family, but he still carried the same blood as her late mother. It meant something to her. Her mother’s words were her own as well as her father’s.

“Do tell your sister that I said hello Arya, your father and your mother would so proud, of the both of you,” he said softly, a smile lining his lips, “I am as well, although I fear there is very little need for my input.”

He turned to wait away and she sighed.

“Uncle wait,” she called, and he halted midstride, “I didn’t mean to be so…” she sighed again as he looked at her patiently, “Thank you, it means a lot that you care so much.”

He smiled and nodded his head sincerely.

“It would be a pleasure to one day hear about your journeys Arya, your mother often wrote to your grandfather about how you enjoyed tales of foreign lands,” she watched the man bow respectively, “Travel safe.”

She watched the man walk away with the addition of confidence to his stride and Arya felt herself smiling ever so slightly.

Edmure Tully reminded her of her mother.

* * *

As the people and carts reduced to the more scenic surroundings that Arya was once used to along the King’s Road, she felt the budding silence between Sal and her grow.

He had reserved himself in front of the people in the Red Keep; not allowing their judgements to reduce him to anything less. Arya had warned him of the state of Westeros, how distinctly paranoid its people. Those in the North was remarkably worse, Arya herself had remembered the looks on her father’s people’s faces when Daenerys marched her Unsullied army through the Winterfell gates. She knew she had far more experience and exposure than the average Northmen, but she feared that even her influence as a Northern ‘princess’ would have little effect on people’s assumptions.

“Something troubling you?” Sal asked, his hips swinging in time with his horse’s gait.

She took a deep breath and peered out to the road in front of them. They had a long trip ahead and she wondered what it looked like for Gendry who had taken the journey in the opposite side of the road, trailing down to the Stormlands where he would be preparing for the initiation of war.

“Aren’t you… I have told you of what the North will be like…”  
  


“You’re worried that I’m not used to having Westerosi men stare at me like I am a slave? I think I will manage,”

Arya rolled her eyes and halted her horse.

“But, I understand…”

“You do not understand,” Sal let out a low chuckle and turned to face her, “You can’t possibly understand the prejudice of having the skin the colour of the earth. To have these men stare at you like you are a wyvern. Arya, my girl, I do know you have suffered great injustices in your life…”

“I know, I know,” she ran a hand over her face, “But as your friend, I am allowed to worry.”

“You need to worry less then, it’s something that is already expected of your people,” he explained, a coy smile stealing his neutral expression, “Do you have such little faith in me, Arya?”  
  


“Shut up,” she said and he fell back onto his back and laughed.

Minutes passed as they lay there, feet apart underneath the luminescence of the canvas of pale milk coloured stars, dotted across the night sky. 

“You were foolish in there,” Sal said to her, piercing amber eyes connected with hers, his lined with fresh khol, “You shouldn’t have let them know so quickly about you and your Storm man.”

Arya let out a chuckle at how he had called Gendry as the name was fitting. ~~~~

“And why?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Those men will think you’re making a move to secure the South of this country, they’ll feel as though your family has too much influence,” he explained, unsheathing one of his decorative axes and balancing it on the flat of two fingers, “You’re tossing kindling into a fire that will sweep across this continent. Being caught in his bed will give them reason for them to join the cause, however pointless you think it is. Your king is a shit king, rebellion is starting to not look so pathetic. And marriage in this realm poses as a threat, especially to what you’ve said of the Dornish. They have already tried their luck with your man.”

Arya scoffed, “Two kingdoms against that of the wrath of five more…”

“You’ve included the North,” Sal shook his head, “So, I was right. This trip was no family reunion. It truly was to rally your sister’s army. And what of it? What if you were right, three years for a broken independent state to rejuvenate their army, their stocks and their coffers. You can feel it in the air Arya, the taste of winter? Has falling back in love done things to your intelligence?”

“You’re a mean man Sal,” she gritted her teeth.

“No, I am an honest one, and your only friend at this point,” he let out a booming laugh which only made her roll her eyes as Gendry was still very much her friend as well, “You think your home is all new and shiny under your sister’s hand. I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall, speak now of Daenerys Stormborn, a slaver’s liberator yes, but not the curer of acute poverty. Land is nothing when it falls into winter’s jaws. Hungry people care little of whose daughter is sitting on which throne. If the woman isn’t feeding them, then they are singing in the taverns about how they want to stone her bloody. Doesn’t matter how hard you know she’s trying, she’s always going to have the more generous cut of the boar, and the softer bed at the end of the night.”

“You’re lecturing me of all people about privilege?” she asked, and Sal simply shrugged his shoulders, “I know of being a slave, I know of mud and chains and sleeping in your own piss and shit.”

“But does your Queen in the North have the same claim to such history or experience,”

She felt her mare’s head toss.

“It seems to be a lot about women,” she looked at him frankly, “Say, does my sister have to lay claim to an experience of slavery for you to respect her leadership? I don’t hear the same comments about Bran.”

“Your brother, I already told you, is a shit king,” he laughed, and she nodded her head, “You cannot deny it _,_ you all are trying to breathe your father’s legacy. You are you, Arya of Winter, you must not let your familiar ties cloud your judgements. How many years has it been since you lived freely with your sister?”

She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Many,”

“As long as you trust your faith in her,” Sal raised an eyebrow, “Is she really that trustworthy.”

Arya did not answer and instead, she thought of the life she would have had to endure if she had not have escaped the Red Keep all those years ago. If Yoren hadn’t pulled her to his chest and shielded her eyes from her father’s head lolling from his shoulders. Sansa had endured far worse than Arya could imagine but it took the confidence of her trip and the friendship of the man beside her to realise that her romanticisation of her sister’s strength had done little but patch up fractures with a silk cloth. Instead, she and Sansa had devised the plan to take down Littlefinger; a mission of a mutual desire to protect the remaining members of their family. She had heard of Sansa’s pain, she heard things in the taverns and on the roads. Even in the markets of Braavos, they talked of Westerosi politics. When Sansa escaped King’s Landing and was suspected of playing part in Joffrey’s murder. When she had been married to Ramsey Bolton.

“We will see,” Arya said softly, more to herself than anyone else.

When she was in Winterfell all those years before, she had felt the twinge of anxiety from living in her sister’s shadow as she had done as a young girl. Arya had spent years of her life trying to go back home, to the castle she grew up in the midst of winter forgetting of the cage her mother and her nobility were quietly cornering her into. She had lots of time to think about the possibilities if her father had not taken both girls down to King’s Landing if he had not have accepted the position of Hand. Arya had been young when the King came to visit Winterfell, but it would have only been years until a betrothal was formed and years only sooner would have seen marriage and children and…

Arya shook her head at the thoughts, something that was more similar to a nightmare than anything else. It brought her back to the night when Gendry, his eyes glazed with what she knew was a mixture of unbridled love, pride and drink. She knew that he had not meant it to cage her but it had still stung when he asked her to be his wife and nothing else. _The Lady of Storm’s End._ Arya shivered at the thought. She remembered her mother with her chin always held high but men of all different creed and class bowing for her in a form of respect

She heard the wind whistle and lifted her own chin to the sky, trying to embody her mother in her summer furs marching through the courtyard of Winterfell to see their father in the Godswood.

Her daydream ceased when her ears picked up faint rustling, a sound she knew did not belong to any hare or forest critter. 

“There’s someone following us,” she whispered and quickly stopped her horse, looking around at their surroundings.

“You’ve just noticed?” he smirked but she could see that his spine was rigid with tension as he stopped his steed abruptly as well.

Sal slipped off his horse and squatted into a fighting position, as he slid an axe from his waistline. Arya stayed on her horse and unsheathed her arakh, trailing closer to where she felt the movement. She watched as closed his eyes, tracing the earth with his fingertips and letting it fall. 

“There,” he whispered, letting the dust follow the wind.

She knew where he was pointing; to a forested area able to conceal a band of what she could quickly tell was four to six men crouched amidst the undergrowth with their weapons readied.

Four men slithered out of the brush adorned with maces, swords of cheap steel and one archer.

“You hand over your shiny horses missy and put those weapons down,” one of the men said at her right as they attempted to surround them both, “We won’t causin’ no trouble."

“Not a fucking chance,” she hissed back, and Sal let out a chuckle.

“So this is how you Westerosi greet one another on the road? With the kiss of steel?” he laughed as the first man lunged forward with a hoarse cry. He met the hatchet with the glide of his blade, “I like such custom.”

“Bloody bastard!” the bandit tried again but Sal easily sidestepped him, swiping the man’s feet from under him.

“No, you, kind ser,” he grabbed the man by the rat tail on the back of his head and held the axe at his throat, “Are the bloody one.”

Arya heard the squelch of split flesh as the man slumped to the ground, boneless and bleeding from the gaping wound in his throat.

“Who is next?” Sal’s booming voice called out; playful and arrogant much as she knew it when they were forced to fight far East in the Cannibal Sands.

Bandits were no stranger to their repertoire of enemies.

Arya’s mare reared and she slipped one foot out of the stirrup, waiting for the steed to settle until she tucked the reins around her left hand and balanced on her remaining leg. She bent her other knee and placed it on the saddle to steady herself as she slid an arrow out of her quiver and drew her bow, kicking the horse into a canter.

Anguy had told her not to aim, so she closed her eyes and let the arrow soar.

She ducked as a spear flew past her ear and she turned to see her shot landed between one of the men’s eyes, sticking out from the back of his skull. She smiled and tossed her bow over her shoulder, slowing to a trot to turn around and survey the situation. In seconds, she located the man who had thrown the spear as he stood within the fighting, weapon-less and angry. She cracked her neck and leaned more steadily against her mare’s side, using her one foot to tap her steed into a gradual canter. She flicked out her arakh and headed straight for the man who only had a moment to look up before she severed his head from his shoulders. She felt the blood spray warm against her back.

She slid off her horse and flicked its rump to run off into the woods, twirling away when a female bandit threw herself at her. Arya read the woman’s lousy footwork and twirled the Dothraki blade in her hand until she moved with the brutal attacks. Suddenly, an axe whirled by her ear and lodged vertically into the woman’s face.

“I had her!” she yelled and heard him laugh.

“To your left!”

She spun around as another man smashed into her, sending her tumbling to the ground and her arakh spiralling away into the dust. In a split second, she regained her footing, swirling from her back and holding a fighting position, whipping out her catspaw.

“Come on you little bitch,” the man goaded, twirling his dagger.

She let him lunge first, dodging his attack as he made quick swipes at her legs.

The bandit was no inexperienced fighter as he matched each of Arya’s steps backward with his own. She flipped her catspaw to her right and slipped Needle out of her sword belt, holding both of them together like a warning and soon metal met in conflict as their blades danced.

Arya felt wisps of her hair crowning her face as they moved in tandem, sweat dripping down her brow as she met the grunts of her attacker. Normally, larger men possessed brutal strength that she was used to dancing around until they drained themselves of energy and morale. But the man she faced had both the skill of stamina, speed and brutality of the fighters she experienced in the East. Part of her was exhilarated by the challenge, but she was not foolish enough to dance with the fact that the man’s dagger was aimed to draw more than a speck of blood. By the intensity of his movements, Arya worked doubly as quickly to evade his short thrusts of the dagger as she gradually picked up the man’s pattern of attack.

She found and opened and sent her leg forward in a power kick straight from her core, sending the man stumbling to the ground. She moved to pin him, but the man was quicker, spinning around and tossing a handful of dirt into her face. She staggered and felt his presence drawing nearer.

Before she felt him raise his dagger above his head, a rush of fur blurred past her field of vision, laying terror to her would-be assailant. When she turned her head there was nothing there but the remnants of a man with his throat torn out. She heard the last puncture of flesh and the slow drop of the body Salloquo had finished and she turned to him watching his eyes grow dark.

“I’m assuming you are no shapechanger from Asshai,” he raised his bloodied brows at her, “Or have your teeth grown in your sleep?”

She shook her head and bent down the mutilated body, prodding the missing part of the man’s neck with her gloved finger.

“What a beast,” Sal laughed incredulously, still out of breath from the rush of adrenaline instigated by the fight, “We seem to have friends of the forest.”

Arya stared out to the clearing and wiped the speckles of blood off her face.

“So it seems,”

* * *

She smothered the fire with the last of the bones of the rabbit they caught

_“I cannot write to you,” he whispered to her, “We cannot risk anything.”_

She sighed when her satchel was empty of charcoal, so Arya resigned by flicking through the pages of her journal from the earlier parts of her journey. During her journey, she had developed a fondness for the written word, finding it oddly therapeutic to scratch down the thoughts in her head. The first pages were long and carefully written, reminiscent of boring days at sea since they had left shore at Oldtown, allowing her the time for open reflection. She landed on her first detailed entry when they had made land. 

_The excitement of the crew learning that the world was nothing more than a circle has rejuvenated my morale. We had travelled down a channel that we were convinced might lead us to a larger stretch of land, yet after a week of following the jungle lined coast of what we now know is Ulthos, we made it the first island in the Strait. With a translator on board, we were able to deduce that it was indeed the easternmost island of the known world, Ulos, although many of the crew including the first mate Jaeger, believed the locals were fooling us as we were obviously foreigners._

_However, as we picked up an additional and eager crew member from the island who spoke excellent Valyrian due to his experience as a trader, we learnt that the landmass to our South was indeed Ulthos and the island we had passed was Ulos. Although I was eager to learn of the landmass, he also informed us that Ulthos was not something to be explored and warned us that our crew and I might fall victim to unknown diseases or the threat of unknown tribes and animals if we ignored such objections from the locals. Even though my curiosity has taken me this far, I believe that land unconquered should remain that way and I insisted we carry forward and navigate the remainder of the Saffron Straits. We were bound, supposedly, for Asshai, the port city on the tip of the Shadow Lands and the home of an impunity of dark arts._

She turned the page and smiled to herself.

_We have made port in Asshai following treacherous winds in the Saffron Straits._

_We decided to remove the direwolf signage and sail with clean sails to avoid future conflict. The citizens of Asshai are reclusive not unlike the descriptions in most Westerosi geographical accounts. There is extensive use of slavery within the structure of the city, most citizens travel by litter or palanquin that are carried on the backs of slaves. The Westerosi majority of my crew were deeply disturbed by the darkness of the city and the normalisation of obscure sorcery. I was pulled aside by who I could only assume was some kind of maegi. They pricked my thumb and told me of my future._

_Tomorrow, we will venture the Jade Sea as I have been told to travel north along the coast until we reach the island of Leng past the Manticore Isles. Our best bet is to dock in the port of Turrani in the South and to employ a translator from Asshai who is able to speak both several dialects of YiTish and Lengii._

Arya nearly laughed at her messy handwriting. She had fulfilled her childhood curiosities fuelled by thick books and hours spent in the dusty corners of the Winterfell library. She missed Maester Wolkan’s soft but compelling voice as he tutored her about the houses of Westeros and even the customs of the lands in the East. She bound her travel journal and kept it tucked in her satchel, fishing for a very different sort of collection of parchment. She had begun to etch her thoughts when she spent her nights alone in the Grey Waste, the eerie wind and the snores of her comrades was the only source of companionship during the desert nights. She flicked through the pages until she landed on one marked with sand she had found on the journey to K’Dath in the Land of the Shrykes.

_The bloodmage who cut my thumb with the silver of a dragon bone dagger told my future, she said I would only love one man and no one else. She told me of my womb, how the Waif had missed and stabbed me higher than what I thought she did. That I would bear a child once the water was once again as clear as a looking glass and the spring had melted the winter snow. I didn’t believe her for my moonblood had not come for close to a year, but after two turns of the sun, I bled like a woman stabbed and for seven days too. We will end this journey at Storm’s End, this destiny is mine._

She moved to the dying fire and picked out a slender bit of charcoal, turning to a blank page of parchment. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind whistle through the trees, the cacophony of sounds of the living forest and Salloquo’s steady snores. She brought the charcoal and pressed it against the page.

_We were attacked today, nothing to warn me of death but enough to make me think of my prophecy. I always thought of motherhood and shied away from its implications. My mother had pushed out five of us, so I only knew of duty. My mother had repeated it often during my childhood, so much that I heard it in my dreams. Family, duty, honour. But I missed the integrity of the words of my mother’s house. Family. The family I have will always be there, in the winds of winter of the home I was birthed into. I really should tell him of my prophecy. That is the path of the future. It will only shackle me if I let it. I must learn of give and take…_

“You write louder than you fight,” she heard her comrade’s sleep ridden voice, “Are you writing letters to your man about how much you miss his cock?”

Arya swatted his leg and the man chuckled.

“What? Does such shame exist between us?” he scoffed, “I would write long lines of prose about you know who, why else do you think I learnt YiTish?”

She hit him more forcefully with the flat of her journal and promptly stashed it in her satchel, "You're ridiculous." 

"Three years in the East and you're still a blushing little girl," he shook his head mockingly before looking past their dying fire, “Did you hear the howl?”

“Howl?” she asked, confused, “Like a wolf?”

She could not recall hearing such noise come from the trees. The wind yes and the rustling of leaves. But not the distinct call

“Are there wolves in these parts?” Sal asked her and she nodded.

They waited a couple more moments, searching with their eyes for the sound of the beast. 

“Maybe that was what killed that man,” he proposed, and her brows furrowed.

“No ordinary wolf kills as unclean as that,” she told him and looked out as another howl started.

Suddenly Sal stood up, both axes unsheathed from his belt as something loomed from the shadows. She could hear its soft movements, stepping towards them and she watched him stand up to face the beast until she saw what it was in the corner of her eye.

“No!” she called as he raised his axe and he looked at her wildly as Nymeria bared her fangs and growled low in her throat, “Stop! That’s Nymeria!”

He dropped his axe and she crouched on all fours, crawling over to her huge direwolf whose topaz eyes looked over her gently.

“It’s me, girl,” she whispered, holding her hand out, “Remember, that day years ago when you found me. It’s me.”

Nymeria sniffed her outstretched palm.

“So this is Arya of Winter’s fierce wolf?” Sal let out a humourless laugh, “You were not lying that your lands had wicked creatures too.”

She smiled as Nymeria allowed her to pet her fur, her fingers tangling in her long fur coat. The she-wolf whined and tossed her head behind her, to the darkened undergrowth, trotting off and continuously stopping to look back if she was following. She sat up and walked towards her wolf, the night and the winter calling her.

“Are you crazy?” she heard him hiss.

“Stay here then,” she smiled over her shoulder, “I didn’t know that Salloquo of the Basilisk Isles was scared of wolves.”

“Wolves I can deal with,” he shook his head, “ _That,”_ he pointed to Nymeria, “Is nearly the size of your horse. It is no wolf.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, watching him draw a geometrical pattern in the dirt.

“A spell,” he told her, closing his eyes, “I’m warding off the scent of death from our weapons. It’s scaring the wolves from the pack despite your connection to the alpha.”

He sliced his hand with the knife from his boot and let the blood drip down his wrist to the earth.

Arya peered at the man curiously as his eyes rolled back and he started to murmur words in a tongue she could not decipher, not even with all her years of training in the House of Black of White.

“Stay here,” she reiterated worriedly when he made no movement, “I won’t be long.”

She walked down the path that Nymeria had led, further into the trees.

_Where are you taking me, funny girl?_

The night howled as she followed the soft pads of Nymeria’s paws. Arya followed on quiet feet, distributing her body weight not to crack the twigs underfoot. She looked around and felt the eyes of a thousand wolves on her, bathing her in the power she felt when she had her dreams; bounding along the forest with the metal touch of blood fresh in her mouth.

Nymeria led her to a cave, concealed by the scrub and the shadows caused by darkened trees.

She ducked her head and looked inside to the sight of a litter of squirming pups.

“Nym,” she breathed as the direwolf nudged her snout at one of the pups before moving to lie down behind them.

They raced to suckle their mother’s milk, clambering over each other. Arya noticed a white-haired runt at the end, attempting aimlessly to squeeze between its brothers and sisters to have its share. She lifted it up and as one of its grey-haired siblings another trotted off, drunken on its mother’s milk, she placed the runt down in the vacant spot and let the pup latch on successfully to a teat.

“Six pups,” she smoothed a hand down Nymeria’s ear down to her shoulder, “Just like the dream...”

Nymeria sighed and lay her heavy head on Arya’s lap and nuzzled her snout against her belly.

“Maybe another time, my girl,” she whispered, “But I won’t be having a litter as big as yours, I’m not as large as you.”

Her direwolf whined and looked up at her.

“You’re still a pup at heart, aren’t you?” she laughed sadly, feeling a trail of salt steal its way down her cheeks, “Remember when you used to yap at the rabbits in the Godswood, then you’d fall on your little face in the summer snows.”

An entourage of memories filtered through her senses; the little laughs echoing through the courtyard of Winterfell as Bran chased her. Her mother’s stern stare on the battlements reduced to tenderness as her father put a hand on the small of her back and kissed her temple. Old Nan telling her stories of dead men and krakens, gentle Hodor, Mikken in the forge surrounded by soot and flame. There was Jory too, always at her father’s side with his soft smile reserved just for Sansa and her. There was her elder brother’s smell of wood and home as he picked her up under her arms and took her to bed. There was Maester Luwin’s hushed voice in the library, and even the time that she had slept in Sansa’s bed and her sister had braided her hair.

She let the tears flow freely, river streams down the hollows of her cheeks pooling on the soft fur of her childhood best friend, her wolf.

“If it hadn’t had all happened...” she whispered, her nose congested with snot, “I wouldn’t have met Gendry or Hot Pie… I wouldn’t have learnt not to trust the world so blindly. I wouldn’t have seen the East… I wouldn’t have travelled with Lommy and Hot Pie, I wouldn’t have met Sandor…”

She bowed her head and let out a shaky laugh.

“But I am lucky, my girl,” she smiled through the tears, “Because the broken can be fixed, I’ve seen it. And I will be my father’s daughter, I will be Arya of Winterfell once again. I’ll live a happy life, there’s someone I love you see.”

Nymeria cocked her head.

“I know,” she laughed, “Me? I used to say I’d rather eat a thousand toads than fall in love,” she closed her eyes, “But he’s like you and me. He’s pack, he’s… _Family._ ”

Arya slumped to the ground, surrounded by the warmth of her beloved wolf and her six little pups as they huddled around her frame that felt as small as it did when she spent the first night curled next to Gendry on the road.


	12. xii - Her Father’s Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gendry goes south and is challenged by not only the predicament of war but of his future as well
> 
> arya has a tense reunion with her sister and travels further north than she ever had before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since jan... big yikes im so sorry. 
> 
> i hope everyone is staying safe and healthy. here's a new, long and double POV chapter to make up for my absence. i love this story so much but it's challenging to write each chapter so bare with me, i have big things planned. 
> 
> enjoy!

**GENDRY**

_**-Bronzegate-** _

Gendry and his party decided on the gentle route through to Storm’s End, to avoid suspicion for their rushed pace. 

Lord Buckler had arranged to house the party of Stormlanders in Bronzegate, especially with the brewing storm from the coast that had hindered the ravens reaching from Gendry’s seat. Worry built low in his belly, for the state of his people and their fields as the last storm had ripped out a shocking percentage of the coffers. 

Gendry had been used to sums since he was a boy, often having to do them for Mott when he was too busy. He had a natural aptitude for them, he thought, as arithmetic in his lordly tutelage in the first year of his reign had been his strength to his letters. It made taxes easier to understand, and easier to analyse to make sure no one was cheating him. They had at the start, thinking he was too common to understand corruption when he had grown up with it in the streets. It meant that punishment was harder; he didn’t tolerate fraud and deception in the kingdom he worked to build from the literal ashes of its neglected shroud. Not at the exploitation of his people who could barely afford to feed themselves after years of war. 

“Are you alright my lord?” Lord Buckler asked him from behind. “You look pensive.” 

Gendry turned around from the bannister and met his bannerman’s warm gaze. 

“You know better than call me that,” he chuckled and watched the playful glint return to the older man’s eye. “Lad is fine. We’re no longer in that vulture’s nest.” 

Lord Buckler lets out a hearty laugh. 

“You and I both,” the greying lord put a hand on his belt. “No one fares well in that horrible city. Not even when you and Princess Arya were up to no good.” 

Gendry picked at the dirt under his nails nervously. He understood that they had thrown caution to the wind after a period of discomfort, and it was foolish on both their parts. Someone must have seen them galivanting through the streets of King’s Landing or sneaking kisses in the shadows of the Red Keep. 

“She’d have a knife in your gut if you called her princess,” he told the lord and he let out a chuckle. “She will be gone by now too, to Winterfell.” 

In a lifetime once forgotten, he might have stayed just for her if she asked, and he would have begged her to stay with him. But he knew he had a responsibility that was bigger than them both; lands to take care of, threats from the rest of the realm and smallfolk that would starve if their coffers were cut off. He loved Arya, but times were different and he could not afford to be distracted, especially when her mind was elsewhere. 

“You seem hesitant about her,” he observed, and Gendry hoped his expressions were at least more contained than when he was a boy. “Is there something wrong?” 

Gendry let out a long breath and thought of Arya leaving and returning like the years were an ocean current. He was more relieved than terrified at the prospect of her finding her home again, and he even was at peace with the possibility of her staying there for the rest of her life. She was a daughter of the North, a living legend of her people even when she had disappeared with Stark sails billowing to the West. She deserved to be at home, _finally_. 

“How do you love a woman you don’t know?” 

The silence around them became palpable, only hindered by the rain bucketing down in the courtyard. 

“In my opinion lad, people don’t change,” Lord Buckler offered tentatively, “Their facades do, but their hearts don’t. I’ve seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one is looking and I see the way you look at her. She broke your heart and we all saw you in your darkest moments because of it. But that cannot mean she changed, not in the slightest. You know her heart, don’t you? Then remember her for it then.” 

Gendry went silent and thought of her. 

_To what? To defend the man I love?_

He hadn’t expected such a fierce response from her, but he was afraid they were empty words. The last time he had met Sansa, the woman had expressed her frustration with being left an entire kingdom to rule by herself. A broken, and relatively new monarchy despite the declaration of several self-proclaimed kings. The Northern people had been through turbulence ever since Ned Stark had left, all those years ago when Arya was a shorn-head troublemaker with a sword too fine for her supposed station. 

Arya hadn’t resumed any responsibility of her name since she had come back, and although he had no authority to say anything on the account, he couldn’t help but be sceptical of her motives to go back to Winterfell. He doubted that Sansa would be as agreeing as Arya thought she would. 

“You do not wish to marry her?” Lord Buckler asked and Gendry hesitated but shook his head. “Well, the lords here would find it more than agreeable. They might even forgive you for rejecting every single member of their female kin.” 

He snorted and flicked a raindrop of his leather jerkin. 

“You’ll need an heir one day,” the man reminded him solemnly.

“I’ve still got my health, don’t I?” Gendry rolled his eyes. “The country is descending into war and you’re still wondering about my bollocks.” 

The man let out a hearty laugh and stamped his foot. 

“Lad, your bloody bollocks are the furthest thing from my mind.” 

“Well keep it that way, don’t need you or any of the men muddling about my personal affairs.” 

“Can’t help themselves, think you’re doing your dear papa right somehow,” he chuckled some more. “And their wives think your romance with the Bringer of the Dawn is one of a song… Which, by no default, is the very truth, isn’t it? Tis’ what they sing about in the taverns from dawn to dusk nowadays.” 

“Bards will sing whatever they can get their noses in,” Gendry huffed and thought about his not so pleasant conversation with Bronn. “Isn’t there anything more interesting these days to write ballads about?” 

Lord Buckler adjusted his belt out of habit, the axe that hung from it clinked against the metal buckles. 

“As lords, we don’t get much say in what the commonfolk like to spew about us.” 

Gendry thought about his childhood on the streets of King’s Landing, hatred seemed to keep the spirits of many solely alive in the times of intense poverty and even further starvation. 

“It’s fair, you have men up in castles, warm in their furs every night and you have the rest of the populace; freezing, hungry.” Gendry looked at his surroundings. “They sing of nothing else because there are no wars, just a peace that everyone knows will not remain.” 

“At the edge of the cliff,” Lord Buckler agreed solemnly. “With nowhere else to look but down.” 

Gendry did not like walking on eggshells; solely not used to the complete invasion of his privacy. People in his home would mind their business, knowing he was not the sort who regularly sought out the company of women and rather spend his time with his people, to prove where he came from. 

“They’re talking behind my backs,” he told the man. “My own bannermen. Thinking that I’m mooning over her. That I’d fall on my knees and let her take whatever I have. I’m not like my father and she is not her aunt.”

He heard Lord Buckler tap his ring on the bannister, the sound echoed through the empty landing like water dripping onto the stone floors. 

“They look at you and see a legacy boy,” he said solemnly. “You and her both. They can’t help but think you are the ghosts of a lifetime ago, sent by the Gods to do some right in the world. Because they hope that you’ll carry the responsibility of your realm better than how your predecessors.” 

_Fuck them all_ , he thought. 

They never did him any good, not even in death. 

He could have been away, doing as he pleased in his forge, in a land that did not know his name. Now he was being torn apart, one by the love he was so hesitant about and the other by the taste of war, looming on the breath of the wind. 

By the time they would be back in Storm’s End, there was no doubt that the Dornish would be prepared, ready to seize an opportunity they thought as his weakness. He might have been ill-prepared in his earliest years, but after months spent gorging on tutelage, history and military tactics, he thought just maybe there would be a fighting chance. 

If Storm’s End held before, it would hold another day. 

* * *

**ARYA**

_**-Wintertown > Winterfell-** _

Arya saw the towers of Winterfell before she could feel the change in the wind, the warning of a winter storm brewed in the clouds behind them and flickered on the edge of the Northern air. 

She felt the nostalgia seep through her bones, a lifetime ago she was travelling unknowingly the opposite way down this very road to a world filled with blood and war. 

“A brutal land,” Salloquo said, his mare tossing her head. “Let’s see just how hardened your people truly are, then.” 

Her eyes flickered to his bandaged hand, the one he drew blood from without a moment’s hesitation. It had long distracted her from sleep as they travelled further North. Blood magic, by account, was no farce in the East, especially as far East as she had found her companion, but it troubled her nevertheless to see it in practice and to be one under its effect. No wolves had come close after that night, Nymeria’s pack skirting the edges of the forest too far from the King’s Road. Neither did another group of bandits or hostile travellers cross their paths. 

“They are no wyverns,” she thought out loud. “But they are no angels either.” 

Salloquo nodded then and they looked up as they approached Winter town, children playing outside the gates; dirtied and clothed in rags as they fought each other with long sticks, their mothers beating laundry by the stream. 

Inside the walls, life was bustling; markets filled with hagglers and dirty children. But something in the air made Arya’s skin prickle.

“Please miss,” she heard a voice, and a hand gripped her calf. “Please, we’re starving.” 

Arya furrowed her brow, instinctually kicked her leg away, trotting to keep up with her companion who looked at her with something in his eye. When she looked back, the lady had disappeared in a crowd of skeletal looking faces, ones lining up for soup, others on the ground. In the pit of her stomach, she began to feel nauseous. 

“This is your sister’s kingdom?” Salloquo asked her incredulously, his face stricken 

_War_ , she thought. It was the years of spiralling political instability, instigated when Robb marched South in their father’s name. It burned when Theon betrayed them all and it scathed when the Boltons took their ancestral seat, tearing down the Stark banners and infesting their home until Jon and Sansa bought back the loyalty of the North and eradicated the vermin. The North had accommodated hosts as large as Daenerys’ Unsullied and Dothraki where she remembered Sansa complaining to Maester Wolkan through hushed voices that feeding them all were eating through their provisions. 

“Halt!” a voice came and the tell-tale sound of a Stark guard, the direwolf signage emblazoned on his plate armour. 

Arya looked up and saw they had come to the gates of Winterfell, surpassing the masses of crowds. 

“And who are you?” one of the guards approached them, the Stark crest emblazoned onto his plate armour. 

She resisted the irk to roll her eyes, this had happened too many times. 

“Arya Stark,” she announced, slipping from her mare. “Her Grace is expecting me.” 

“On a white mare,” the guard to the right whispered, his accent thick and Northern. “It’s ‘er, alright. That’s the Bringer of the Dawn, look at her ‘er sword, and that dagger! Let ‘em through.” 

“Your highness,” the first guard bowed his head so she could see the beginning of his receding hairline. 

The gates of her home creaked as they opened, the wind around them billowing about their horses, sending the bells attached to Salloquo’s saddle into a cacophonic flurry. They walked their steeds through the gates and Arya soon caught the eye of her sister standing with a modest party in the yard. 

Her sister was adorned in a long grey gown, detailed with embroidery of the spanning branches of a weirwood tree with golden and red thread. The dress was long and gathered by a coiled silver belt that sat neatly above her hips and her skirts were unpractically long, trailing grandiosely behind her, gathering muck from the yard. And finally, to her last amusement, a crown was poised perfectly on her neatly brushed auburn Tully hair. 

“It’s well to see you, Arya,” Sansa walked forward, reaching out for her hands which Arya was reluctant to give up. 

“And you,” she managed a smile, not understanding why she felt so disconnected from her sister. 

They had been well in Winterfell three years before, bonding over shared experiences and the connection they still maintained of their father’s wisdom. But now the space between them was cold, much too cold for her liking. 

“This is Salloquo of the Basilisk Isles, my first mate at sea aboard my ship _Visenya_ ,” she introduced the man beside her who bowed, respectfully but not without his touch of mirth that always shone through. 

“It’s a pleasure, your Grace.” 

Sansa regarded him for a moment and slathered on a smile that was neither genuine nor warm.

“Come, you must be weary from your travels,” Sansa beckoned, turning to the castle so sharply, Arya wondered how her tiara still sat upon her head. “The guards shall show you to your room, and Arya, please join me in our parents' solar.” 

She looked at Salloquo who pressed his lips together and held out a hand to let her go forth first. 

“Don’t want to keep her waiting, do you?” 

*

“He is an interesting choice of a companion,” Sansa noted, shutting the door to her solar as Arya found a seat by the window. 

“He is not ‘interesting’,” she sneered, noticing the nonchalant look on her sister’s face. “You find him odd because of his race, nothing else.”

“And am I allowed not to be alarmed, when you bring strange men into our home—” 

“Please!” Arya exclaimed, trying to emphasise her exasperation. “He is only a ‘strange man’ because of the colour of his skin. I see you bring vagabonds and creatures within our walls without a moment’s glance.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa let out a laugh and touched her heart. “Was that a little bit of our childish feud that slipped through the cracks?” 

_No, that was just your ignorance showing more than it does normally,_ she thought but kept her tongue. 

“Well, at least you’ve become more sensitive,” she heard her sister mutter under her breath and Arya looked away, not bothering to engage. 

It would mean a fight, in her parents’ old solar, whilst their ghosts looked down on them with disdain. Their father had hated when they fought as children, she remembered seeing the pain marred into his features every time they did so. 

“You were in King’s Landing,” her sister commented. “Was Bran well?” 

Arya traced the furs of her cloak. 

“Yes.” 

“And what of your paramour? How does he fare?” Sansa asked, pouring wine into a golden goblet encrusted with what Arya could tell were rubies. “Oh please, the tales have reached the North from the capital, the songs too. I am not sure which of them are exaggerated but it is not quite the topic a woman wants or _needs_ to hear about their little sister.” 

She never even fathomed her family home owned such finery, nevertheless, Sansa lifted it to her lips and took a tentative sip, the wine barely touching her thin lips. 

“Who?” she asked, tiredly. 

“Arya,” her sister raised her brows. “You, of all people know that it is not wise to act so evasively with me. Your intimacy with Lord Baratheon was noted before you took off to the high seas. The rumours of long looks, painful gazes, his pining eyes as he watched you sail off into the horizon-” 

“There is no love like the songs Sansa, whatever you hear sung in these halls is not relevant to anything,” she sat up from her chair and circled her sister from where she lounged on the chaise. “Here you are gossiping like a maid, and your subjects are starving in the streets.” 

Sansa looked away, her brow furrowing. 

“I know.” 

“You know they’re dying? Begging for food—” 

“What can I do Arya?” her sister snapped, reverting her instantly into silence. “What can I do but count my coffers again, pretend there’s enough grain and provisions to feed my people for the rest of winter when the wars depleted them long ago? Winter will starve us all and there is only so much I can do!”

_Yet there will be venison for dinner, she thought, watching Sansa’s icy glare, simmering under a curtain of creamy gravy, infused with rosemary, served with a side of potatoes baked and lavished in fresh, soft butter. I know for dessert there will be a tray of her favourite lemon cakes, dusted with powdered sugar and a drool sweet syrup. We will go to bed, covered in the furs from five different beasts and a featherbed fit for an army, guards outside our doors and fires in our hearths. Whilst the common folks’ guts rot and splinter from a dinner of roots and bark, standing guard through the night from pillagers._

“You may have ended the Long Night, but it didn’t stop winter from coming,” Sansa continued. “The bannermen and I could not predict how harsh the winter came, we didn’t know the state of the fields and taxes. The Boltons barely cared for the state of the castle, do you think they would have paid heed to the economics of the North’s exports and imports.”

Maybe Roose did before his son butchered him. 

“I haven’t slept wondering about those children Arya, I haven’t slept wondering how in the Seven Hells our father ran the North as calmly as he did. I want to rip my hair out, strand by strand. And the petitions, Gods, they line up outside the walls pleading. But what can I do?”

And yet, here you lie as if you’re Cersei herself, indulging on Dornish Red whilst brother riots brother in the street, and women open their legs to feed their children…

She had seen poverty, witnessed the brutality of slavery right before her very own eyes, even suffered it herself whilst in Harrenhal with Gendry and Hot Pie. Sometimes, it baffled her that Sansa acted the way she did; assuming the horrors she suffered were ten-fold more credible than hers. Although her sister said nothing, there was an invisible competition hanging in the air like a dark omen. But here she was too; under the roof of a home, she was always welcome to no matter the weather. She guessed she had a bed in Storm’s End as well, no matter how angry Gendry had been upon her arrival he still had offered her a room and food and shelter. 

“I don’t mean to criticise you,” Arya sighed and gripped the back of a chair. “I haven’t no right. Not being here for years, I am learning my place now. But I am allowed to be concerned, I’m trying to help—” 

“Yes, I heard of your diplomatic venture to the Iron Bank,” Sansa’s features did not ease, instead her gaze bit through her. “Quite a hero.” 

Arya fought the desire to press a fork through her eye and out the back of her skull. 

“Why are you here sister?” Sansa questioned her. “Not for the pleasure of my company for sure.” 

Arya sighed. 

“I need to find Jon.” 

Sansa let out an incredulous laugh.

“To find Jon… No one has seen Jon for three years, Arya,” she pinched her temples. “So you come only to criticise how I run our father’s kingdom and then aim to gallivant beyond the Wall in search for a man who has shunned mankind for the sins he committed.”

“He is our brother!” 

“And he betrayed this realm,” Sansa snapped. “Whilst he went kissing Daenerys’ boot in the South, I was running a kingdom barely tethered to an ounce of control and function. Think of what the Unsullied would have done if Bran did not become king!” 

Arya didn’t think she was quite right, not at all. For she had not seen the horrors in the streets of Kings’ Landing as they burned nor was she there when it began to snow ash, coating the blood in white and grey. 

In another life, she would have been fast friends with Daenerys Targaryen, curious about her dragons and her life in the East. But caught up in the stupidity of family feud, war and the selfish crux of her desire for vengeance, there had been no time to relieve childhood passions. She had agreed that Daenerys was no tyrant, not understanding her sister’s utmost hatred for the white-haired woman who had stolen their brother’s heart. It was no different to her and Gendry, yet she had been more distant and selfish, sticking a metaphoric knife in his heart rather than watching the one she loved bleed out on the steps of the throne room of the Red Keep. She concluded, rather quickly, that her love for Gendry was not in a comparable spectrum to the songs they sang about her brother, who nearly lost a kingdom by mooning over his paternal aunt. But the past was the past, Arya had watched it wash away in the seas and the lands of the East. Madness had spiralled from grief, and there was nothing to do but reminisce. The Breaker of Chains was no more, neither was the Night King. 

“You are no hero either,” Arya bit back, hoping the words would sting. “No matter how much you sing your praises in the looking glass. If the people are starving then they’ll wish to stone you bloody either way, no matter whose blood you carry through your veins.”

“Because I am a woman,” Sansa spat but Arya shook her head. 

She would do anything to make her sister see what she so ignorantly missed. A lifetime in captivity mayhaps, but not one of chains, of mud and rain and piss. She remembered how hungry they had been on the road, Gendry and her only managing to scrape by days with roots in their bellies as Hot Pie had adamantly refused them to touch bark, lest they get splinters in their guts. Even for two boys where a bowl o’ brown was a common delicacy, she felt guilt at the memory of boisterous feasts, flinging food across the table as if an infinite commodity when she was younger. 

“Because you might know of pain but you do not know of hunger.”

Arya stood up and pushed through the doors, disappearing down the hallways into the dark leaving her sister to eat her words. 

* * *

_**-Winterfell > Castle Black-** _

“She won’t see you off?” 

Arya shook her head and watched Sansa by the battlements, far away enough to not realise she had spotted the auburn-haired woman, hiding away. They had rested and collected provisions for a week, pleasantly avoiding her sister and instead familiarising herself with her childhood home, readjusted to every crevice in the rough, warm walls and the rooms her mother chided her from entering. She avoided the Godswood like the plague, 

“She’s licking her wounds,” she smiled to herself. “She’ll be fine when I return and bring Jon. I hit a spot, most likely.” 

Salloquo watched her curious expression, she could see him in the corner of her eyes, attempting to make sense of sisters’ quarrel. 

“It seems honesty is an insult in your parts.” 

“She’s better than most siblings,” Arya laughed. “There was a man who pushed his brother’s head in the hearth for playing with his toys.” 

He shook his head in disbelief. 

“That is why you Westerosi start wars like flies drop,” Salloquo told her. 

“It is not all pleasant in the East, y’ know?” she teased. 

“Yes, but there is an inch of honour for battles over land that has belonged to men for centuries. There is no honour in bloodshed over a piece of bread. No matter which land it is.” 

“I know,” she said and put a hand on his arm. “But men fair differently in these lands.” 

He sighed and looked out to the courtyard. 

“It is what it is,” he whispered. 

She watched him pensively as he closed his eyes and turned his eyes to the gates. She cleared her throat and stepped towards their steeds, bowing to check her mare’s girth. 

“Come on, we’ll freeze to death before we get to the Wall.” 

The trip to the Wall took five days of hard riding, the winter winds still sharp against their faces and whistling through their furs and coats. Arya had never been so far North in her life, not even allowed to trail the Wolfswood further without the careful supervision of her father or brothers. 

They reached Castle Black when the wind was howling, the looming structure of the largely abandoned seat of the Night’s Watch looming over them and casting them in a dark shadow. It was hard to even explain the concept to Salloquo who had done his best by reading as many books about Westerosi culture in the libraries of King’s Landing and later Winterfell. He hadn’t quite agreed with the idea of collecting petty and horrible criminals alike in a place which tested both the will of men and the Gods and, more recently that of the unnatural. 

From the other side of the hard steel gate, a man appeared, wearing dark brown leathers and a cloak that billowed behind him. 

“You the princess then?” the brother asked her, and she nodded. “I’m Daeron.” 

“Will you take us North?” she looked around at the desolate yard. 

Her brother had trained here, had died here too. She had heard of the tales, the ones where his brothers left him bleeding in the snow and the Red Witch had brought him back. 

“Tormund will be here soon, we had a crow send word for him.” 

“Not my brother?” 

The man let out a nervous laugh. 

“His grace is a reclusive fellow, only talks to Tormund,” Daeron looked down at her from his massive height. “It’d be near impossible to get ‘im up here.” 

She looked back at Salloquo who looked at her pensively. 

“Why don’t you two come inside the hall?” he suggested and gestured to the building behind him. “Made a broth, ‘ave some bread an’ ‘alf o’ bottle of ale if it please you.” 

They crawled through the wind back inside, the immediate chill had not disappeared but at least they were safe from the elements. Arya shook the ice off her cloak 

“M’ sorry it’s not a lot your highness,” he said, pouring her some broth and she and Salloquo sat down. 

“It’s more than enough,” she said and sat herself down while the man fetched mugs.

“Thank you ser,” he gestured to the man.

“Oh, I’m no ser,” Daeron insisted. “Just a man.” 

She smiled and let him ladle some warm broth for all of them, popping out the cork of the promised bottle of ale and pouring generous serves. The aroma of the simple broth had Arya’s stomach growling with hunger, her hands itching to snatch up the bowl and drain it in one big gulp. But she kept her composure as the man sat down with them. 

“It’s not so often we feast with a princess warrior and her deadly companion,” he raised his tankard. “Old Gods bless ye.” 

“And you too,” Salloquo nodded his head, clinking their cups together. “Whatever Gods are listening.” 

Arya smiled and repeated the gesture, and soon they tucked into their quaint meal, the hall echoing with the sound of ripped bread and slurping. 

After a while, Arya wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Did you fight in the battle?” she asked, and he nodded grimly, staring at the bottom of his tankard. “Of the Dawn?” 

The man had a handsome face, albeit marred by a long scar across his nose where the tissue was badly healed, most likely from poor stitching. He had broad shoulders and a tussle of dirty brown hair falling into his eyes that were green like the Jade Sea. 

“Aye. They took me brother; he rose as one of them an’ I was forced to cut him down like the rest of em’” his thick accent was obstructed even further by his furs. 

“I’m sorry. Were of you Winterfell?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“No m’ lady, of Last Hearth, they sent us down to fight when King Jon returned with the Dragon Queen.”

“Just Arya is okay,” she told him, and he gave her a small smile. “You did honour to your family.” 

She could see grief in those eyes, exposed to the horrors of the longest night they all had experienced. The dead, raining upon them like the Hells themselves, gore and blood coating their skin like a lather…

“I lost my lass too,” he sighed. “In the crypts, she was a maid in the keep. When they rose down there, the slaughtered them like lambs. Defenceless until they all dropped. I remembered them all dropping when you killed 'im.” 

“My sister was there,” she told him, and he looked up. “I heard of the massacre. I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“You’re a hero m’ lady,” he told her, filling her tankard. “The Bringer of the Dawn.”

Arya shook her head.

“No, I am just a woman, just like you said,” she told him and watched a tear slip from his eye. “I did what had to be done, as we all did.” 

She put a hand on his when he began to cry, an awkward silence permeating the room. 

“M’ sorry, I’m no man cryin’ all over you like that,” he tried to wipe his eyes. 

“More of a man than many,” she assured him and smiled at him. 

“They say you had a lover too, m’lady, did you lose him in the battle?” he asked, and her heart stilled. 

“No, he survived,” she said solemnly, thinking of Gendry half a world away. “Were you always a soldier? In Last Hearth?” 

He shook his head and let out a small smile. 

“I was a smith before,” he told her, and her eyes lit up. “Just nails an’ horseshoes, nothin’ exciting. Before the war, me master said he'd train me as a swordsmith.” 

She squeezed his hand. 

“My lover was an armourer’s apprentice in King’s Landing growing up,” she told him, and his eyes went wide. “Did you help make the dragonglass weapons?” 

“Yes! I think I know ‘im, Gendry, right? The grumpy lad?” 

She laughed and nodded. It was utterly a coincidence that their worlds had collided in the most auspicious method. 

“Gods, he’s a lord now ain’t he? He was proper common like the rest of us, slept in the back o’ the forge, was the first one up an’ the last asleep. Absolute mad man that one, dunno how he survived the stubborn bastard. He well? You still see ‘im?” 

“He is, yes,” she smiled. “Hating his lordship more than anything, but he’s doing a better job than any other fat arsed, lazy Southroner.” 

“That’s good to know,” he smiled. “You give him my word; say he’s welcome up to this shithouse whenever he pleases.” 

“I won’t hesitate in telling him—” 

The door flew open and a large man clambered through.

“Ah! Little wolf! There ye are!” he pointed right at her. “Look just like Lord Crow, easy spotting.” 

Tormund Giantsbane seemed to have grown more rugged in his time north of the Wall, his beard was longer and his clothes more roughened. She recalled him brandishing his axe, wild and bloodied as he took on wights by the dozens.

He looked at the jug of mead and sniffed it experimentally, wrinkling his nose. 

“Just that Southern piss on you then?” he asked and Daeron nodded his head. “Shame, winds were particularly bad comin’ down. Could have gone with something warmer.” 

The wilding eyed Salloquo. 

“Enough provisions?” Daeron asked and the man nodded, his eyes still fixated on her friend that she felt her fingers itching towards her arakh. 

“You might as well spell out your troubles for me then,” Salloquo asked, standing up and unsheathing his axes. "Staring at me won’t answer them.” 

Instead of reading the obvious threat, Tormund walked forward, unsheathing his own axe and laying it flat on the table in front of him. 

“Where’d you get steel like that?” he demanded, pointing at the blades. 

Salloquo narrowed his eyes.

“I picked them off the corpse of a slave master in Asshai,” he told him, and Tormund stared down, his eyes flickering between the two weapons.

“You said your father gave you them to you,” Arya asked and he shook his head. 

“An easy story sounds more impressive to a smith who’s wrapped around my captain’s finger. No one appreciates a scavenger as much,” he said. “My father could be a king or a beggar for all I know.” 

They looked down at the blades, laying side by side. She noticed the similarity, the same glint of 

“They both have the same inscription,” Arya observed tracing the strange characters engraved in the metal. “Is it Essosi?” 

Salloquo shook his head.

“What about a tongue of the freefolk?” she asked Tormund who shrugged his broad shoulders.

“You’d need a wise woman for that, there are about as many tribes as I can count on me fingers an’ toes ten-fold.” 

“You, smith,” Salloquo pointed at Daeron, whose eyes went as wide as moons. “Can you tell us if the metalwork is perhaps the same?”

He looked down for himself, his eyes flickering over the steel. 

“It’s hard to say, but you can tell that the way the blade’s been tempered is mighty similar. Look at the rivets in the metal, it’s no easy feat seein’ the way it’s been folded. But then,” they watched as he trailed the pad of his finger down the hook of the axe, flicking the metal to hear it sing. He repeated it on each of Salloquo’s blades and the same tune played. He sat closer and traced a finger down the shoulder.

“What you doin’ daft boy?” Tormund interrogated, pushing Daeron’s shoulder. 

She unsheathed her arakh and flicked it up to hold at his throat, staring down at him with his chin raised. 

“Leave him be,” she warned. 

“Arya,” Salloquo said her name through gritted teeth and she gave Tormund one last look before taking her blade away from the softness of his thorax. 

“Explain yerself then if yer goin’ to be fondlin’ our blades like your long-lost lover,” the wilding demanded. 

“I’m tryin’ to feel the texture of the metal from the cheek of the axe blade to the shoulder, whoever made this had a completely different technique of foldin’ steel than I was taught by me master. You can also see, the sound of the metal before, from the toe to the heel? Doesn’t sound like normal steel should sing,” he told them all and the room was distilled into silence. “Also, it’s odd, right? Because these axes are a real work o’ art, yet there be no mark. Usually, a master smith’s likely to leave a mark right here for convenience.” 

“Essosi smiths do not like to leave these ‘marks’,” Salloquo told him. “Besides mayhaps the Qohorik. It would be shameful to wield another man’s blade if his name was written upon it. Thanks to the Dothraki, and the slave trade, many weapons are stolen.” 

“It’s not a name,” she told him, producing Needle from its sheath. “Westerosi smiths use a symbol, like this one so their craft is identifiable.” 

She pointed to Mikken’s symbol on her small sword.

“Now, even us folk got that on our blades.” 

“Just not this one,” Salloquo pondered, his face growing dark. “Do you pass your weapons down?” 

Tormund nodded his head. 

“My father’s axe, and his father before ‘im.” 

Daeron cleared his throat. 

“There’s a better chance than the inscription could be some sort of mark,” he told them. “If it can be deciphered that is.” 

“There’ll be some old croak up North,” Tormund laughed and looked at Salloquo. “If you’re willing to learn more about this.” 

“Most certainly,” he nodded his head, “It only adds to the mystery of the world running in a circle.” 

“The world is round?” Daeron asked and even Tormund was stupefied. 

“Like a sphere, yes,” Arya told them. “When I sailed West, I soon reached Asshai. I am meant to tell the maesters of Oldtown but… Westeros isn’t technically very stable.” 

“Asshai… Asshai,” Tormund whispered, beginning to pace. “I’ve ‘eard that name before… Some name… So familiar…” 

They watched him rub his temples, a deeply confused look taking over his features. 

“Well fuck it, there’ll be someone ‘ith a better memory than me, a wise woman maybe,” he announced. 

“You’ll need to take us North anyway,” Salloquo nodded his agreement. “Why don’t you keep looking at these blades young smith, we will sup and leave at dawn.” 

“Ah there’s no need for the Lady of Wolves to come

“Why?” she snapped

She had been a wallflower in the process of the events as they studied the blade. Not that she was lacking knowledge about weapon craft, the House had taught her everything she needed to know about a weapon; the angle of a blade and how far it cut into the skin, which weapon would permit a clean death and which attack to a body part would make the streets run red. On their travels, Arya had seen blades and weaponry of all sorts, carried by men and woman alike of different races, in the towns and on the backs of travellers such as their selves. A mystery of the unknown sung to the curiosities she had developed as a child, there was no doubt she was intrigued. For her trip had been solely based on her desire to see more of what wasn’t already come across. But with the turmoil and danger of her family, mayhaps it was her turn to watch from the shadows. 

“Because he is here already,” Salloquo said, studying Tormund’s face. “Is that what you mean to tell her?” 

He nodded and Arya felt her heart quicken. 

“Go see your brother, she-wolf,” Tormund ordered firmly, looking between her and the blades still flat on the table. “Your friend and I’ll sort whatever hag’s riddle this is.” 

Salloquo nodded his head. 

“I thought he was North?” she asked, her brows furrowing. “Further, beyond the Wall?” 

“We told him his sister was comin’ to get him, he asked for which one and when mentioned you lass, there was no stoppin’ him,” Tormund smiled. “He’s in the old Lord Commander’s chamber.”

“To the left of the battlements if you up by the main stairs,” Daeron explained for her. “It’s a big oak door m’ lady, hard to miss.” 

“Thank you,” she sighed and looked at the men crowded around the table before rushing out the door to the outside. 

The wind had let up as she walked into the yard, the snow falling gently against her face. A lifetime ago, Jon had been here, most likely kicking green boys into the dirt and getting scolded for it. She barely saw him with a sword in the time she had been back in Winterfell, preparing with the others for the incoming battle. What she wouldn’t give to go back in time and watch her brothers run around and give all sorts of Hells to Ser Rodrick Cassel who threatened to beat them black and blue. 

She looked up the stairs and urged herself to take each step, hearing the wood creak in the empty yard. She made her way up the battlements just as Daeron the smith had advised and looked down as the yard got smaller and further away. Had it come to this moment, grown to a woman of one and twenty who had spent more years in foreign lands than she had in her father’s seat. Was he staring down at her, with the rest of the Old Gods, watching her every movement as the sun came up each day? Was her mother there too? With her Gods, scorning her for her love and selfishness. 

She shook herself out of her trapping thoughts and moved forward, placing one boot in front of the other until she reached a door that was indeed thick and oak-like she had been told. She pressed her ear against it for good measure, and just her luck she heard the sign of movement within it, peering down as well to catch a sliver of light from under the door as well. She held the handle of the door in both hands and turned it, following the timber frame to avoid the hinges from squeaking. 

She looked inside and the ice around her heart melted. 

Jon was crouched by the hearth, quietly poking the fire as it crackled, bathing the room in soft, yellow, flickering light. Jon was wearing wolf furs that bunched up by his ears and lined a long black cloak, pooling behind him. From his side, she could see his Valyrian steel sword with the white wolf head at the pommel, the one she heard the people call Longclaw. 

To his right, Ghost was sitting looking right at her with his glowing red eyes as silently as a deer. 

She eased the door forward and stepped through. 

“Hello, brother.” 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are GREATLY appreciated and they make my day 1000000 times better.


End file.
